round his
hat."

"Yes, sir," said the man, "but I thought that was to show he was a
Salvation Army captain."

The whole camp chuckled over that story for a week. Whether any one
ever told it to the general I do not know.

Another private, an Irishman, arrived in the camp one day from the
firing-line. Ours was the remotest base; two days' journey from the
nearest trench. Between us and the fighting men was what seemed an
impassable entanglement of regulations, guarded at every angle by
R.T.O.'s and military police. It was, any one would agree about
this, a flat impossibility for an unauthorised person to travel
through the zone of the army's occupation.

Yet this man did it, and did it without in the least intending to. Up
to a certain point his account of himself was clear. He had been sent
off, one of a party under charge of an officer. He did not know--few
people in the army ever do know--where he was going. He became
detached from his party and found himself, a solitary unit, at what
seems to have been a railhead. The colonel who dealt with him
questioned:

"Why didn't you ask the R.T.O. where you were to go?"

"I did ask him, sir. The first thing ever I did was to ask him."

"And what did he say?"

"What he said, sir, was 'Go to the devil out of this.'"

The colonel checked a smile. He probably sympathised with the R.T.O.

"And what did you do then?" he asked.

"I got into the train, sir, and sure, here I am."

That particular colonel's temper was notoriously a little soured by
long command. It was felt that the soldier had, after all, made a
fair attempt to obey the orders of the R.T.O.

Another private--less innocent, I fear--caused me and a few other
people some mild excitement. I was summoned to the orderly-room to
answer a telephone call. I was told by some one, whose voice sounded
as if he was much irritated, that he had caught the man who stole my
shirt. No one, thanks to my servant's vigilance, had stolen any shirt
of mine. I said so.

"Grey flannel shirt," said the voice, and I gathered that he was
irritated afresh by my extreme stupidity. I disclaimed all knowledge
of any stolen shirt, flannel or other.

An explanation followed. A deserter had been arrested. It was
discovered that he was wearing four flannel shirts and three thick
garments under them. "That," I said, "is good _prima facie_ evidence
that he really is a soldier." I thought that a useful thing to say,
and true. No one in