s out here. But they know which side of the bread the butter is.
Bad time for trade, they say, and every other trader has bought a car
since the war. Of course, there's something to be said for the other
side, but what gets my goat is their pettiness. I'm for British East
Africa after the war. There's a chap written a novel about Basutoland
called 'The Land of To-morrow,' but I'd call it 'The Land of the Day
before Yesterday.' I suppose some of them came over with an assortment of
ideas one time, but they've struck no new ones since. I don't advise you
to settle in a South African dorp if you can help it, padre."

"Don't suppose I shall," said Peter. "I've just got engaged, and my
girl's people wouldn't let her out of England."

"Engaged, are you? Thank your stars you aren't married. It's safer not to
be out here."

"Why?"

Donovan looked at him curiously. "Oh, you'll find out fast enough,
padre," he said. "Wonder what you'll make of it. Rum place just now,
France, I can tell you. There's the sweepings of half the world over
there, and everything's turned upside down. Fellows are out for a spree,
of course, and you can't be hard on a chap down from the line if he goes
on the bust a bit. It's human nature, and you must allow for it; don't
you think so?"

"Human nature can be controlled," said Peter primly.

"Can it?" retorted the other. "Even the cloth doesn't find it too easy,
apparently."

"What do you mean?" demanded Peter, and then added: "Don't mind telling
me; I really want to know."

Donovan knocked out his pipe, and evaded. "You've got to be broad-minded,
padre," he said.

"Well, I am," said Peter. "But ..."

"Come and have a drink then," interrupted the other. "Jenko and the Major
are coming back."

"Damned poor whisky!" said the latter, catching the rail as the boat
heaved a bit, "begging your pardon, padre. Better try brandy. If the war
lasts much longer there'll be no whisky worth drinking this side. I'm off
it till we get to the club at Boulogne."

Peter and Donovan went off together. It was a new experience for Peter,
but he wouldn't have owned it. They groped their way down the saloon
stairs, and through a crowd to the little bar. "What's yours?" demanded
Donovan.

"Oh, I'll take the Major's advice," said Peter. "Brandy-and-soda for me."

"Soda finished, sir," said the bar steward.

"All right: two brandies-and-water, steward," said Donovan, and swung a
revolving seat near round for Gra