e little
Army" has been sown. Thus it was ordained in the Book of Fate.

But at the moment there were just two men, sick of heart, watching the
sun, in a blaze of golden glory, setting over Gozo. . . .

X

Draycott's deliverance from the Half Way House came in three or four
weeks. With the men swarming in the rigging, and the Territorials who
had come to replace them cheering from the shore, the transport moved
slowly down the Grand Harbour past the French and British warships that
lay at anchor. It would indeed be pleasing to record the fact that the
departing warriors sang patriotic songs concerning their country's
greatness; and that the officers with a few well-chosen words improved
the shining hour, and pointed the moral of the great Entente with
special reference to the warships around them. But being a
truthful--or, shall we say, comparatively truthful--historian, I regret
that it cannot be done.

Such songs as did rise above the medley of catcalls and gibes of a dark
nature which passed in playful badinage between the sister services
were of a nature exclusively frivolous; and the conversation of such
officers as were not consuming the midday cocktail consisted entirely
of a great thankfulness that they had seen the last of an abominable
island, and a fervent prayer that they would never see it again.

The relief of it--the blessed relief! They would be in time for the
end of the show any way, which was something. They were not going to
miss it all; they would be able to look their pals in the face after it
was over. A few, it is true, shook their heads and communed together
in secret places: a paltry few, who looked serious, and spoke of a long
war and a bloody war such as had never been thought of. Avaunt
pessimism! war was war, and a damned good show at the best of times for
those who were trained to its ways. The Germans had asked for it for
years, and now they had got it--and serve 'em right. A good sporting
show, and with any luck they would get the fag end of the hunting at
home after peace was declared.

Thus it was, nearly three years ago; thus it has been, with slight
modifications, ever since. A nation of sportsmen going merrily forth,
with the ideal of sport as their guide, to fight a nation of swine,
with the ideal of fouling as theirs. And so the world wags on in its
funny old way, while the gods laugh, and laugh, and laugh. . . .

XI

On the boat Draycott hardly realised.