ng and stared at their
departing foes. Then they turned round and gaped at each other. Then
they applied to Bob Power for information. They wanted to know,
apparently, whether they had gained a great and glorious victory, or
were to regard the departure of the enemy as some subtle kind of
strategy. Bob seemed as much puzzled as every one else. Even Bland, in
spite of his experience of battles in two great wars, was taken aback.

"Well, I'm damned," he said.

"Thank God, thank God!" said Clithering.

Then he crumpled up and fainted. He meant, I think, to express the
relief he felt at the cessation of hostilities. He had not heard, or
if he heard, had not heeded, Bland's remark. Clithering is not the
type of man to thank God for any one's damnation, and he had no
special dislike of Bland.

"I'm damned," said Bland again.

"I suppose," I said, "that it's rather unusual in battles to do that
sort of thing--march off, I mean--without giving some sort of notice
to the other side. It strikes me as rather bad form. There ought to be
a rule against it."

Bob's men returned, sheepishly and dejectedly, to their original
posts. Crossan was arguing with McConkey about the condition of the
machine gun. The young man who had taken off his coat before the
battle picked it up from the ground, brushed it carefully, and put it
on. Bob Power walked along the street with a note-book in his hands.
He appeared to be writing down the names of the shop-keepers whose
windows were broken. He is a young man of active and energetic
disposition. I suppose he felt that he must do something.

Bland stared through the window for some time. He hoped, I dare say,
that the soldiers would come back, with reinforcements, perhaps with
artillery. At last he gave up this idea.

"Let's have a drink," he said. "We want one."

He turned abruptly and stumbled over Clithering, who had fallen just
beside him. I got hold of a waiter, the only one left in the club, and
made him bring us a whisky and soda. Bland squirted the syphon into
Clithering's face, and I poured small quantities of whisky into his
mouth. Clithering is a rigid teetotaller, and has for years been
supporting every Bill for the suppression of public houses which has
been brought before Parliament. The whisky which he swallowed revived
him in the most amazing way.

"Have they gone?" he asked.

"If you mean the soldiers," said Bland, "they have. I can't imagine
why, but they have."

"I