IT was considerably after midnight when one of three officers seated at a whist-table in the mess-room of the Cavalry Barracks at Idleminster, where the Scarlet Lancers were quartered, called out, “Bootles, come and take a hand—there’s a good chap.” “I don’t mind if I do,” he said, rising and moving towards them. “What do you want me to do? Who’s my partner?”…
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