Peter, I gathered, was the fat cob, who by this time had butted into the
lines and was tearing at a hay net as if he hadn't had a meal for years.

His alleged master looked at me hopeless, helpless. What was he to do?
"Well, since Peter is evidently stopping to tea with my horses," said I,
"the only thing you can do is to come to tea with us." So I lifted him
down and bore him off to the cow-shed inhabited by our mess at the time
and regaled him on chlorinated Mazawattee, marmalade and dog biscuit. An
hour later, Peter willing, he left us.

We saw a lot of the Padre after that. Peter, it appeared, had taken
quite a fancy to us and frequently brought him round to meals. The Padre
had no word of say in the matter. He confessed that, when he embarked
upon Peter in the morning, he had not the vaguest idea where mid-day
would find him. Nothing but the black cob's fortunate rule of going home
to supper saved the Padre from being posted as a deserter.

He had an uneasy feeling that Peter would one day suddenly sicken of the
war and that he would find himself in Paris or on the Riviera. We had an
uneasy feeling that Peter would one day develop a curiosity as to the
Bosch horse rations, and stroll across the line, and we should lose the
Padre, a thing we could ill afford to do, for by this time he had taken
us under his wing spiritually and bodily. On Sundays he would appear in
our midst dragging a folding harmonium and hold Church Parade, leading
the hymns in his twittering bird-like voice.

Then the spinster ladies of his old parish of Thorpington Parva gave him
a Ford car, and with this he scoured back areas for provisions and
threaded his tin buggy in and out of columns of dusty infantry and
clattering ammunition limbers, spectacles gleaming, cap slightly awry,