ly just begun.

So far I have dealt principally with one phase in the gentle game of
war: the phase that concerns itself with outing the wily Hun by means
of a rifle bullet. True, Reginald had tasted of other pleasant methods
under the kindly guidance of Shorty Bill; he had even gone so far as to
enter into wordy warfare with the battalion exponent of bayonet
fighting with regard to the relative merits of the bayonet G.S. and the
weapon that he had presented to the Huns on his night prowl. In fact,
our friend was beginning to hold opinions--and quite decided
opinions--of his own. He was still in his infancy, I admit; but to
those who were privileged to watch his growth he seemed a hopeful
specimen. The seed appeared to be falling on good soil.

But it may be remembered that with regard to the question of the sower,
the seed which fell on stony ground appeared good for a time, until it
was found that there was nothing behind it. Precocity is a dangerous
thing, and in his new school Reginald was certainly precocious.
Nowadays it is necessary to form judgments quickly in the Army: the
game is being played at such high pressure. And so mistakes are bound
to occur, though the Honourable James Lascelles disliked making them
now, just as much as he did in the days when he could take his time.

The thing in question at the moment was the fitness of our friend for
the stripe when a vacancy occurred; and the Honourable Jimmy, being the
Adjutant of the South Devons, and having the headquarter specialists
under his eye, was somewhat intimately concerned with the solution of
the question. I think I have failed to mention previously that it was
the South Devons that Reginald adorned--that celebrated regiment known
to the Army and the world at large by the more familiar soubriquet of
the "Stick 'em and be damned."

So when the edict of Toby Seymour, the C.O., went forth, the Adjutant
seized the opportunity of trying to find out a little more fully
whether it really was good soil in Reginald's case, or whether it was
stony. To-day the edict would seem almost a matter of routine; at that
time things were different. Toby ordered a raid, and it was so.

It was to be a raid on a large scale: no isolated affair like the
pilgrimages of Shorty Bill, but an affair where the enemy's trenches
were to be entered by a large party. No silent, stealthy work, but a
thorough good jolly, with bombs and noises complete.

To-day raids are