home with his kit-bag on his back--and the
cracked head was his reception. He supposed she had had a lot of easy
money and had given way to temptation--and

"And what's a man to do, sir?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Corporal," said I. "It's damned hard lines on
you. But, at any rate, you can look upon this as your home for as long
as you like to stay."

"Thank you kindly, sir," said he.

I turned and beckoned to Betty and Marigold, who had been hovering out
of earshot by the house door. They approached.

"I want to have a word with Marigold," I said.

Tufton saluted and went off with Betty. Sergeant Marigold stood stiff
as a ramrod on the spot which Tufton had occupied.

"I suppose Mrs. Connor," said I, "has told you all about this poor
chap?"

"Yes, sir," said Marigold.

"We must put him up comfortably. That's quite simple. The only thing
that worries me is this--supposing his wife comes around here raising
Cain--?"

Marigold held me with his one glittering eye--an eye glittering with
the pride of the gunner and the pride (more chastened) of the husband.

"You can leave all that, sir, to Mrs. Marigold. If she isn't more than
a match for any Grenadier Guardsman's wife, then I haven't been married
to her for the last twenty years."

Nothing more was to be said. Marigold marched the man off, leaving me
alone with Betty.

"I'm going to get in before Mrs. Marigold," she remarked, with a smile.
"I'm off now to interview Madam Tufton and bring back her husband's
kit."

In some ways it is a pity Betty isn't a man. She would make a splendid
soldier. I don't think such a thing as fear, physical, moral, or
spiritual, lurks in any recess of Betty's nature. Not every young woman
would brave, without trepidation, a virago who had cracked a
hard-bitten warrior's head with a poker.

"Marigold and I will come with you," I said.

She protested. It was nonsense. Suppose Mrs. Tufton went for Marigold
and spoiled his beauty? No. It was too dangerous. No place for men. We
argued. At last I blew the police-whistle which I wear on the end of my
watch-chain. Marigold came hurrying out of the house.

"Mrs. Connor is going to take us for a run," said I.

"Very good, sir."

"Your blood be on your own heads," said Betty.

We talked a while of what had happened. Vague stories of the
demoralization of wives left alone with a far greater weekly income
than they had ever handled before had reached our ears. We had read
them i