ay it was, but after a slight argument they arrived at
the astounding discovery that it was indeed Saturday. The discovery was
astounding, because it was almost incredible to them that such misery
could happen on a Saturday night--_the_ night of the week--the night of
marketing, of toothsome dishes, of melodrama and music halls.

"If my missus could see me now," roared a Reservist, "wouldn't her
laff!" He was, perhaps, a great deal more amused than she would have
been, poor woman.

"I ain't agoing to Church to-morrer," said another, with assumed
languor. "I'll lay a'bed, an' smoke me baccy, an' read me Sunday papers"
(derisive groans).

"Me and Sam's goin' on 'Midnight Pass' ter-night, ain't we, Sam?"
inquired a young "timeserving" fellow. "Who's on at the Hipper-drome?"

"Oh! Mah-rie Lloyd."

"Get urt, you'm too young to see our Mah-rie." Roars of laughter, that
almost shut out the wind with their heartiness!

The Subaltern could tell very accurately how their thoughts were flying
homewards, and he could see the very same pictures in front of their
eyes, because he lived near to where most of them lived, and knew the
sights that most of them knew. Their homes on Saturday night! The warm
red tiles of their kitchen floors; the "scrap" mats (laboriously hand
sewn) in front of the bright fires in their "grates." The walls of
their "parlours," bedecked with gorgeous lithographs, calendars and
framed texts!

All the things they loved so much to do on Saturday nights. The humming
market street, entirely blocked with its double rows of booths. How
pleasant it must have seemed to them! At the top of the street the
church stared impassively into space; at the bottom, the trams clanged
and grinded as they rounded the corner and swung triumphantly into the
square. The stalls, brightly lit by flaring gas-jets, laden with meat,
fish, fruit, sweets, music, flowers, all that the Soul could long for
throughout a restful Sunday day. Their womenfolk, with their heads
covered in the ubiquitous shawl of many colours, buzzing busily from
booth to booth, with a purse clutched in one hand, and an open "string"
bag, filled with bulky newspaper-covered parcels, in the other. The men
looking on with hands in pockets, English-wise, indefinably
self-conscious in the face of the delicate business of shopping. Then
perhaps an hour or two's excitement in a shag-scented picture palace, or
a crowded music hall with some big star at the top of t