nd so on. All is action, and very pleasant action too. Then
duty, though it's the habit to revile and curse it, duty is associated
with a sense of manhood; a sort of goosestep chivalry to be sure, but
still chivalry. One likes to see the sergeant with his orderly book, and
to read, 'Ensign Calvert for the main guard.'"

"And how long does all this last?"

"I gave it three months, some have been able to prolong it to six. Much
depends upon where the depot is, and what sort of corps you're in."

"Now for the reaction! Tell me of that."

"I cannot; it's too dreadful. It's a general detestation of all
things military, from the Horse Guards to the mess waiter. You hate
drill--parade--inspection--the adjutant--the wine committee--the
paymaster--the field-officer of the day--and the major's wife. You are
chafed about everything--you want leave, you want to exchange, you
want to be with the depot, you want to go to Corfu, and you are sent to
Canada. Your brother officers are the slowest fellows in the service;
you are quizzed about them at the mess of the Nine Hundred and
Ninth--"Yours" neither give balls nor private theatricals. You wish you
were in the Cape Coast Fencibles--in fact, you feel that destiny has
placed you in the exact position you are least fitted for."

"So far as I can see, however, all the faults are in yourself."

"Not altogether. If you have plenty of money, your soldier life is
simply a barrier to the enjoyment of it. You are chained to one spot,
to one set of associates, and to one mode of existence. If you're
poor, it's fifty times worse, and all your time is spent in making
five-and-sixpence a day equal to a guinea."

Loyd made no answer, but smoked on.

"I know," resumed the other, "that this is not what many will tell you,
or what, perhaps, would suggest itself to your own mind from a chance
intercourse with us. To the civilian the mess is not without a certain
attraction, and there is, I own, something very taking in the aspect of
that little democracy where the fair-cheeked boy is on an equality
with the old bronzed soldier, and the freshness of Rugby or Eton is
confronted with the stern experiences of the veteran campaigner; but
this wears off very soon, and it is a day to be marked with white chalk
when one can escape his mess dinner, with all its good cookery, good
wine, and good attendance, and eat a mutton-chop at the Green Man with
Simpkins, just because Simpkins wears a black coat, li