, Master Cockerell succeeded in
distributing "C" Company among some dozen houses. One old gentleman,
with a black alpaca cap and a six-days beard, proprietor of a
lofty establishment at the corner of the street, proved not only
recalcitrant, but abusive. With him Cockerell dealt promptly.

"_Ca suffit_!" he announced. "_Montres-moi votre grenier!_"

The old man, grumbling, led the way up numerous rickety staircases
to the inevitable loft under the tiles. This proved to be a noble
apartment thirty feet long. From wall to wall stretched innumerable
strings.

"We can get a whole platoon in here," said Cockerell contentedly.
"Tell him, Alphonso. These people," he explained to Sergeant M'Nab,
"always dislike giving up their lofts, because they hang their laundry
there in winter. However, the old boy must lump it. After all, we are
in this country for his health, not ours; and he gets paid for every
man who sleeps here. That fixes 'C' Company. Now for 'D'! The other
side of the street this time."

Quarters were found in due course for "D" Company; after which
Cockerell discovered a vacant building-site which would serve
for transport lines. An empty garage was marked down for the
Quartermaster's ration store, and the Quartermaster-Sergeant promptly
faded into its recesses with a grateful sigh. An empty shop in the
Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, conveniently adjacent to Battalion
Headquarters, was appropriated for that gregarious band, the
regimental signallers and telephone section; while a suitable home for
the Anarchists, or Bombers, together with their stock-in-trade, was
found in the basement of a remote dwelling on the outskirts of the
area.

After this, Lieutenant Cockerell, left alone with Alphonso and the
orderly in charge of his horse, heaved a sigh of exhaustion and
transferred his attention from his notebook to his watch.

"That finishes the rank and file," he said. "I breakfasted at four
this morning, and the battalion won't arrive for a couple of hours
yet. Alphonso, I am going to have an omelette somewhere. I shall want
you in half an hour exactly. Don't go wandering off for the rest of
the day, pinching soft billets for yourself and the Sergeant-Major and
your other pals, as you usually do!"

Alphonso saluted guiltily--evidently the astute Cockerell had "touched
the spot"--and was turning away, when suddenly the billeting officer's
eye encountered an illegible scrawl at the very foot of his list.

"Stop