hed that state of merriness, in which they found every distant
pop of a cork the excuse for a fresh cheer and cries of "Take
cover!"

Major Hardy, too, was beaming. He had sipped the best part of three
bottles of champagne, and was feeling himself, multiplied by three.
He assured Monty that the padres had been the most magnificent
people of the war. He told three times the story of one who had died
going over the top with his men. That padre was a man. The men would
have followed him anywhere. For he was a man every inch of him. But,
of course, the victim and hero of the war, said Major Hardy, looking
at Doe, myself, and the weary Jimmy Doon, was the junior subaltern.
Everybody was prepared to take off his hat to the junior subaltern.
He had died in greater numbers than any other rank. He had only just
left school, and yet he had led his men from in front. The Major, if
he had fifty hats, would take them all off to the junior subaltern.
His heart beat at one with the heart of the junior subaltern. And,
steward, confound it, where was the drink-steward? There would be
the most awful bloody row, if he weren't looked after properly.

Dinner over, the riotous juniors rushed upstairs to the Officers'
Lounge, a large room with a bar at one end, and a piano at the
other. Some congregated near the bar to order liqueurs, while others
surrounded the piano to roar rag-time choruses that one of their
number was playing. This artist had a whole manual of rag-time
tunes, and seemed to have begun at Number One and decided to work
through the collection. Each air was caught up and sung with more
enthusiasm than the last. And see, there was Major Hardy, leaning
over the pianist that he might read the words through his monocle,
and singing with the best of them: "Everybody's doing it--doing
it--doing it," and "Hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo."

The Spirit of Riot was aboard to-night. The wines of Heidsieck and
Veuve Pommery glowed in the cheeks of the subalterns. It was the
last night in an English harbour, and what ho! for a rag. It was the
first night afloat, and what ho! for a rough-house. And there was
Elation in the air at the sight of Britain embarking for the
Dardanelles to teach the Turk what the Empire meant. So shout, my
lads. "Hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo."

Major Hardy was equal to any of them. He was the Master of the
Revels. He had a big space cleared at one end of the lounge, and
organised a Rugby scrum. He a