aking their way to the trains. Splendid young fellows
most of them were. The cream of England's manhood. They were almost
without exception ruddy with health, and as hard as nails: straight,
muscular men, who laughed at hardships, and who seemed to look at the
whole business as a joke. They might have been going to a picnic, so
merry were they. And yet, as Bob looked more closely, it was easy to
see by the compressed lips, and the steely looks in their eyes, that
they realised what they were doing.

"Good-bye, Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square,
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there."

They sang, and perhaps as they sang they pictured the homes to which
they would never again return; they saw, as in a vision, the girls to
whom they had said "Good-bye," perhaps for ever.

In a few days, perhaps, many of those light-hearted boys would be lying
in the trenches, or in some ditch, stark and dead, or in some hospital
maimed and crippled for life.

Yes, war was a ghastly, hellish business, and it should never be
possible in Christian countries. This war, Bob felt, was one of the
greatest crimes ever known, and all through which he had been passing
ought only to be able to exist in troublous dreams.

Still he had no doubts about his duty. England's hands were clean, and
England's path was clearly marked out. We were not fighting for gain
or territory. With us it was a war of sacrifice, a war of duty. We
were going in order to keep our word with a small state, to crush
tyranny and slavery. But more, we were going to overthrow the war
devil which the Germans had set up as a god. That was the thought that
stirred Bob's heart and hardened his muscles. It was a war against
war; he was really taking his part in a great mission on behalf of
peace. Yes, it must be a fight to the finish. The sword must never be
sheathed until this military god, which had turned all Europe into an
armed camp, and which had made Germany a menace to the world, should
never be able to lift its ghastly head again.

"I say, Nancarrow, you look mighty grim."

"I'm in for grim work, Pringle."

"By gad, yes. How many of these chaps will be singing 'It's a long way
to Tipperary' in a month from now? How many aching hearts are there
because of this business? Yes, Nancarrow, you were right, war was born
in hell, but we must see it through."

When they landed on French soil, they were received w