rranged the sides, interlocked the
subalterns in the three-two-three formation, forced their heads down
like a master coaching boys, and, when he had given the word "Shove
like hell," ran round to the back of the scrum, got into it with his
head well down, and pushed to such purpose that the whole of the
opposite side was rushed off its feet, and the scrum sent hurtling
across the lounge. A few chairs were broken, as the scrimmagers
swept like an avalanche over the room. Major Hardy was hot with
success. "A walk over! Absolutely ran them off their feet! Come and
shove for them, you slackers," he shouted to those, who so far had
only looked on and laughed. A score of fellows rushed to add their
weight to the defeated side, and another score to swell the pack of
the victors. "That's the style," cried the Major. "There are only
about sixty of us in this scrum. Pack well down, boys. Not more
than twenty in the front row. Ball's in! Shove like blazes!" Into it
he got himself, and shoved--shoved till the scrum was rolled back
across the lounge; shoved till the side, which was being run off its
feet, broke up in laughter, and was at once knocked down like
ninepins by the rush of the winning forwards; shoved till his own
crowd fell over the prostrate forms of their victims, and collapsed
into a heap of humanity on to the floor.

Wiping his brow and whistling, he organised musical chairs; and,
after musical chairs, cock-fighting. Already he was limping on one
knee, and his left eye was red and swollen. But he was enjoying
himself so much that his enjoyment was infectious. To see him was to
feel that Life was a riotous adventure, and this planet of ours the
liveliest of lively worlds. And really, in spite of all, I'm not
sure that it isn't.

Doe and I with our hands in our pockets had contented ourselves with
being onlookers. The high spirits of Major Hardy's disorderly mob
were radiating too much like electric waves through the room for us
not to be caught by an artificial spell of happiness. But neither of
us felt rowdy to-night. Monty, too, as he stood between us, looked
on and moralised.

"It's three parts Wine and seven parts Youth," he ruled (he was
always giving a ruling on something), "so I'm three parts shocked
and seven parts braced. But I say, Doe, we're a race to rejoice in.
Look at these officers. Aren't they a bonny crowd? The horrible,
pink Huns, with their round heads, cropped hair, and large necks,
may have