wards you will observe that below the waist he is a soldier in khaki knickers and puttees. A singular vision; but, you see, this staid gentleman has been 'called up,' allottedonly too wisely, as I should judge, for I question his worth as a warrior to sedentary duty at home, and given a special pass which enables him to tootle melodiously at two houses per night. Such are the horrors of Armageddon. Tommy Atkins from his toes to his tummy, and Savile Row --more or less-above. Splendid fellow, the bald flute player!)

As I was remarking, the programme sometimes threatens me with a Versatile Violinist. This is one of the things which-in spite of eclectic. tastes-I cannot abide, for I know that he (or she) will, at some point in the turn, cause his (or her) violin to imitate the bagpipes, especially the distant bagpipes. I do not know why, but a violin made to sound like bagpipes bores me. If someone would come on and make bagpipes sound like a violin I might stay, out of curiosity. As it is, I hasten forth to the bar.

The other night when I entered this bar with no intention of drowning the bagpipes in spirituous liquor for the hour was already past 9.30-I encountered one Private Robinson, who greeted me as a long-lost friend.

Our original introduction had been, by genteel standards, perhaps a share outré. When I first had the privilege of beholding Mr. Robinson he was attired-but attired but why put the matter euphemistically?- he was stark naked. Moreover, so was I. He was having a bath. So was I. The outer side of his bath was painted red. This indicated (as a notice, on the bathroom wall, informed those whom it might concern) that the bath was reserved for individuals affected with a certain skin disease: an ailment

which I must make haste to add, in fairness to Mr. Robinson and thousands of his good comrades-is very commonly acquired at the Front, and is no fault of the victim. I regret to say that a glance at Mr. Robinson's person sufficed to convince me without the hint given by the red bath or by the odor of the sulphur curative which arose from it-that my new acquaintance had fallen a prey to the complaint in question. And I too was in a red bath. But my reasons for being in a red bath differed from Mr. Robinson's reasons. He was in a red bath because he had got-well—we may call it Thingumy. I was in a red bath because I had not got Thingumy. Thereby I was pursuing an ancient principle of mine, which I originally arrived at when visiting Davos Platz, the consumptive resort. Nobody ever contracts consumption at Davos. Owing to the health regulations in force there, it is one of the safest places in Europe for anybody afraid of 'catching' tuberculosis. There are more tuberculosis bacilli loose in a London omnibus than in Davos. Similarly, if you wish to avoid 'infection' from baths, use those baths which are definitely labeled for infected bathers, inasmuch as those are the very baths which are most carefully Lysolized after use. I do not say that all the baths in that bathroom were not maintained in a remarkable state of purity by the khaki-clad gentleman who, ever since August 5, 1914, had daily and hourly swabbed them outand who is at this moment still patiently doing so, after over three years of it. I merely say that if, in a moment of aberration, he forgot to cleanse a bath it would not be a red bath; and if he squirts more Lysol into one bath than into another bath you may back the red baths to get the

overdose every time. At all events the theory has worked to my satisfact on. However . . . !

Its sole disadvantage, in practice, is that it leads to misconceptions. On the other hand, a misconception of this nature led to my acquaintanceship with Private Robinson. For Private Robinson, greeting, as he justifiably supposed, a fellow martyr, cast an eye upon me as we each stood toweling, and observed 'You seem to have near got quit of it, Mate. But it's hell, ain't it, while it lasts. What I say is—and I bet you say the same instead of this here damn Itch, give me lice all the time, any number of 'em.'

The fruits of human experience are always worth making a note of, and I made a note of Private Robinson's preference accordingly, and, explaining my own lack of familiarity with the alternatives to which he had made allusion, I gave him, in fair exchange for his information, my own observations of, and deductions from, the state of affairs at Davos Platz. I find such barterings not unprofitable. Certainly in masculine society much excellent conversation consists in the simple process of 'comparing notes.' One man tells the company about the steak they gave him at Valparaiso and another caps it with the story of the ham and eggs eaten at 2 A.M. with the cabbies in the Junior Turf. One man tells of Geishas in Japan and another of a conductorette on the No. 77 'bus route. Thus are pearls of knowledge added to our collection. I find that if I wish to hear about the wonders of the greatest event in history, from men who have taken part in it, I must contribute to the chat by a few remarks on some event which I have witnessed, such as a Charlie Chaplin film, or a Chelsea Models' dance, or a Madrid bullfight,

He

Private Robinson, in the music-hall bar, professed himself adjectivally glad to see a friend. This adjectival place had got on his nerves. wanted some one to talk to: a tactless remark, for it was obvious that he had been talking to the barmaid. But I am afraid that barmaids are accustomed to tactlessness; accustomed, by the same token, to their feminine conversational charms failing utterly to compete with masculine. It is a common thing, in a saloon, to see a man who has been immersed in deep and apparently enjoyable chat with the barmaid abandon her the moment the entry of a man acquaintance provides him with a man listener. Nearly all men like talking to men, whereas only a few men like talking to women ; and if one may substitute the phrase talking with' for 'talking to' it would almost be safe to assert that, except when the strongest sex interest prevails, all men prefer talking with men to talking with women. Such men as Private Robinson certainly do. It might be said that they never talk with women: they only indulge in badinage, condescending or respectful as the case may be. Upon the moral of which (if it enshrines any) I make no comment. I simply record the fact that the barmaid was left smiling her mechanical smile, patting her back hair, and surveying rows of 'minerals,' while Private Robinson buttonholed me and conversed.

He conversed of many things, some printable and some otherwise. He had been to the Front again, been wounded, and was soon to return. Life at the Front displeased him; but he did not dwell on his displeasure; he took it for granted that I would take it for granted: his views were only those which are held by every soldier and which only flame forth when Mr. Catchpenny, who has had a week's guarded joy ride behind the lines, writes a patriotic article on the theme of how our brave lads go into battle with a song on their lips and merry eyes which mock at danger: I have heard extracts from such an article read out in a Troops on Leave 3d class compartment; and . . . However... !

Private Robinson was not reticent. But I should be misrepresenting him if I hinted that he held strong opinions. He held none at all. He dealt in experiences, not in opinions. He assumed that everybody wanted the war to end: that was plain: having glanced at the assumption he simply went on to the anecdotage which is the basis of all masculine comparing-of-notes. He told me about the Push in which he had been wounded. He told me about the English hospital in which he had been healed. The 'grub,' I was given to understand, had been good. Also there was an old lady, a visitor, who had come bearing gifts and had invited him to her home. He had stayed a week, after his discharge, and it had been an enjoyable week, the old lady's idea of entertainment being to provide plenty of buttered toast, and bloaters for breakfast. Theatres? Pretty girls to tea? Motor drives? Not a bit of it. Just food; and the kindly company of the old lady, who sat on one side of the hearth and knitted while Private Robinson

digested and smoked on the other: such was the enjoyable week. Vainly do the pretty girls ('some birds!') compete, with their chatter, against the charm of such a programme. How well I know that nice old lady! I too have seen her, in the hospital with which I am acquainted. Her methods are a mystery to me, as they are to the 'birds.' I do not know how, exactly, she casts a spell over the Private Robinsons; certainly it is not by lavishing luxuries upon them: she is generally a denizen of a little. forty-five-pound-a-year villa, which may be cozy but cannot contain temptations for the luxurious. Nevertheless her guests (of which there is a continual sequence) one and all call her blessed, faithfully correspond with her after their departure, andwell-'some birds' are out of the running when she aspires to act the hostess to an attractive wounded soldier alone in London. Did I say 'London'? Substitute the name of any town which owns a war hospital. There is always the same old lady to love and be loved by the same old Private Robinsons. Alas, poor birds'!

Now it came to pass that Private Robinson, having talked for threequarters of an hour on subjects as various as buttered toast and gangrene, let fall, en passant, a tale which seems worth repetition. It appears that during the first stage of the Push in which he was eventually wounded he and his fellows advanced to, and took, a portion of German trench and certain German dugouts. No sooner had they done so than a terrible barrage began to fall all around them. It was a British barrage -for our Robinsons, in their haste, sometimes enter the zone of their own barrage. So tremendous was the hail of shells that it seemed impossible for any creature to live in the midst of it.

The noise was indescribable, maddening. Robinson and his fellows, cowering in the shelter of the newly won dugouts, could scarcely hear themselves speak, and peered forth on to an inferno of explosive earth, mud, débris: a lunatic realm which banged and banged and banged, and spouted death.

Behold, twenty or thirty yards from their dugout, there was a German soldier, running to and fro, dodging hither and thither as though to escape the missiles which deluged on every hand. His face was frantic with terror. He had lost all sense of direction: he had, in fact, lost his reason. 'Balmy, the poor blighter was,' said Private Robinson. 'It gave you the pip to watch him.' However, the Englishmen continued, fascinated, to watch the German. And the latter, bewildered, continued to stumble blindly to and fro, in anguish, but miraculously uninjured. Now it is clear that the sole object of the presence of Private Robinson and his comrades at that particular spot was to kill (among other people) that particular German. The sole object of the hundreds or thousands of tons of metal being sprayed on to that particular spot was to kill (among other people) that particular German. However . . . !

What happened was this. Two of Private Robinson's mates, unable to endure the sight of the German's torture, crawled forth, at the utmost peril to themselves, managed to catch their foe, and drag him into shelter and safety. There they soothed him with a cigarette. His gibberings lessened. He became calm. Having wept a little he thanked his rescuers. Then the barrage moved forward. And that is where the story ends. Private Robinson et Cie. thereafter had other things to attend to, and

what befell Fritz-whether he became a prisoner or whether he went forth to fight, and perchance still survives -not one of them knows. 'Not a bad little chap,' said Private Robinson. And my word, he had got the wind up. Cruel to see, it

was.'

He did not add that logic is at a discount on the battlefield; for his conduct towards the other Germans encountered that day had been, as far as one could gather, quite properly ferocious. 'Dirty swine, I call 'em.' Far be it from me to ask him why, if so, valuable English lives had been risked to save one from the fate which a score of expensive English guns were toiling to bring about. There would be very little human nature, and therefore very few queer stories, if there were no such thing as inconsistency in the world.

Now I come to think of it, I declare that the best stories I have ever heard are those of which the narrator himself fails to see the point. For then, even if the story is not true, the story of the story's telling has an adequate truth, and becomes the story itself. Not that the story which I am about to place on record is untrue. It is true, as the story of Private Robinson is true. Goodness knows that there is small need to invent episodes in this war. One's only difficulty is to pick out the episodes which are not too impossible to be dismissed (by the stay-at-homes) as scandalously manufactured fiction. At all events, the tribulations of Private Brown are not manufactured (his wooden leg is, to put it mildly, a piece of circumstantial evidence in their favor; for he certainly did not march in the Expeditionary Force with a wooden leg, and he came back from Germany lacking a limb); and the wording of the tale as I heard it from

The thing happened during the retreat from Mons. Private Brown was one of the 'Contemptibles,' and at an early stage in that momentous drama which began by being a tragedy and ended as a triumph, he was wounded and taken prisoner. He was treated by the Germans exactly as their own wounded were treatedwhich was n't saying much: for from his description of those nightmare days it would seem that the confusion, the scramble, the contradictory orders and bustlings hither and thither, on the part of the apparently victorious forces who were advancing was scarcely less terrible than that of the apparently defeated forces who were retreating. Sometimes by day and sometimes by night, sometimes in rain and sometimes in shine, Private Brown was lugged first here and then there on a stretcher, dumped down in the open, on mud or in the roadside ditch, neglected for hours or unexpectedly visited and fed, glanced at by a harassed but eternally cigarsmoking surgeon, then jolted off again to some fresh halting place; while, all around, was the racket and roar of the tide of feldgrau flowing Pariswards. And Private Brown, on his stretcher, was one of a score of other anguished mortals on stretchers who were similarly borne backwards and forwards in eddies of that frantic tide, often delirious and unaware of what was happening to them—and in too great pain to care. The other occupants of the little company of stretchers were Germans: in this particular batch Private Brown happened to be the only Britisher.

His plight was pitiful. He was alone amongst strangers-enemiesof whose language he knew not a word. His shattered leg had become septic.

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ment of his stretcher (on which he once lay for four days without leaving it) was excruciating and it was incessantly being moved. Twice the Unit which was supposed to be evacuating him and his fellow sufferers to some unknown goal, more or less in the direction of Germany, halted at a temporary hospital or dressing station. At the first the German surgeon amputated Private Brown's foot. At the second he amputated still further up Private Brown's leg. Before Private Brown (after experiences which would fill a full-length novel) came home to England twelve months later, he had had four amputations. Two of these amputations, as I say, took place in the field; and if you have ever witnessed an amputation you will know that it cannot be agreeable for the patient to be tumbled to and fro on a stretcher before and after being under the surgeon's knife, dragged across country, flung down in cowsheds for the night, or left out under the stars or in the rain. Private Brown might have been justified in wishing he were dead. Perhaps he was too far gone to wish anything at all.

One night, when the world had nearly faded from the perception of Private Brown, his stretcher and the others were brought for shelter into a church. Eternity was very near to Private Brown: the poison in that septic leg-stump was creeping through his system. His eyes were closing. He could dimly see that, on the pavement of the church, a double row of stretchers had been disposed; and lo, threading their way between the stretchers, came two or three vague figures in black -nuns. They must have been French nuns, who had remained in spite of the invasion: and they were tending the wounded,