es, the officers usually met in a certain
restaurant, where they broke the necks of a few bottles of good wine.
And often it would happen that they boarded the midnight train, being
in a decidedly animated mood, returning to their garrison.

One night Lieutenant Mueller, the regimental adjutant, found an
official telegram on his reaching home, and was obliged, despite the
late hour, to go to the chief clerk of the regiment, in order to talk
over its contents.

There had been a heavy fall of snow, and the keen east wind drove the
snowflakes in a wild dance through the cold air. It was all one could
do to recognize the path.

Mueller, who did not like being disturbed at such a late hour,
continued grumbling to himself all the way to the barracks. Whenever
he had taken more than was good for him he was in a quarrelsome mood,
and in such a case he usually made trouble. His comrades claimed that
he was suffering from megalomania.

Through the thick snow Mueller saw the illuminated windows of the guard
house, and inside the small detachment of men were peacefully
slumbering.

The officer _du jour_ had already visited them, and the men had now
made themselves comfortable, discarding their sabres and helmets,
contrary to the regulations, and, dozing in their chairs, had covered
themselves with warm blankets.

Private Roese had mounted guard outside. He stood, shivering in the
cold air, holding his sabre in his fist, barely able to maintain his
martial attitude without freezing on the spot.

His thoughts dwelt in his far-away home, with his parents and
brothers, whom he expected to meet again at Christmas, after a long
term of separation. His people were well-to-do farmers, and his
affection for the horses, cows, and plump pigs under his father's roof
was as sincere as that for the bipeds. He pictured to himself all
these pets, and was speculating as to what he was to do in the shape
of amusement during the holidays, when he was suddenly scared by the
shout:

"Guard!"

Roese pulled himself together and quickly glanced all around him in the
gloom; but he was unable to discover the owner of the voice. Another
similar shout reached him, and then at last he saw dimly in the
driving snowflakes a figure approaching him.

"Why don't you present arms, you swine?" bawled the regimental
adjutant.

"I humbly beg the Herr Lieutenant's pardon; but I did not see him
coming in the snowstorm."

"Shut your mouth, you lying beas