timate knowledge of motors
and motor-cycles would be of great advantage to him, and he had been
advised on all hands to join as a despatch-rider. In imagination he
already saw himself up to the most weird pranks on his machine, many
of which, much to the gratification of his friends, and just as much
to his own astonishment, were proved later to have a solid foundation
in fact. Over dinner we discussed the question of applying for
commissions.

"Oh, dash it, no," said Jack; "I'm going to Berlin on the old
snorter."

"Commissions are off--quite out of the question," Tommy agreed with
emphasis. "To begin with, it means waiting, which is absurd; and in
the second place I object to any attempt to travel first-class. It's
silly and snobbish, to put the kindest construction on it. If I've got
to join this excursion I'm willing to go where they like to put me,
and if necessary I'll hang on behind."

I record this remark because it was the last that I ever heard poor
Tommy Evans make in this connection; and I think the reader will agree
it was just what one would have expected of him.

We said good-bye after dinner. They all wanted to come to the station
to see me off, but I was anxious to be alone with Dennis.

The others in any case had plenty to do, and I could scarcely let them
sacrifice their "last few hours of liberty" to come and see me off. I
rather expected that the excitement of the war would have prevented a
lot of people travelling, but the reverse was the case. There seemed
to be more people than ever on the platform, and I could not get a
corner seat even in the Fort William coach. I bundled my things into
a carriage and took up as much room as I could, and then Dennis and I
strolled about the platform until the train was due to start.

"Strange mixtures of humanity you see on a railway platform," Dennis
remarked presently.

"Very," I agreed. "I daresay there are some very curious professions
represented here."

"This chap, for instance," said Dennis, indicating a youth in a tweed
jacket and flannel trousers. "He might be anything from an M.P.'s
private secretary to an artist's model, for all we know. I should say
he's a journalist; he knows his way through a crowd as only
journalists do."

"A typical Yorkshire cattle-dealer in his Sunday best," I suggested,
as we passed another passenger. And so we went the length of the
platform making rough guesses as to the professions of my fellow
travellers. Sud