be so ready
to think the worst of things," he said.

Something in the gathering darkness and the gathering sadness of
this farewell evening made me communicative. I wanted to speak of
things that were near my heart.

"I s'pose just nowadays I _am_ thinking the worst of people. I've
seen so much evil since I've been in the army that my opinion of
mankind has sunk to zero."

"So's mine," murmured Doe.

"And mine has gone up and up and up with all that I've seen in the
army," said Monty, speaking with some solemnity. "I never knew till
I joined the army that there were so many fine people in the world.
I never knew there was so much kindliness and unselfishness in the
world. I never knew men could suffer so cheerfully. I never knew
humanity could reach such heights."

We remained silent and thinking.

"Good heavens!" continued Monty. "There's beauty in what's going on
in the lounge. Can't you see it? These boys, a third of them, have
only a month or more in which to sing. Some of them will never see
England again. And all know it, and none thinks about it. Granted
that a few of them are flushed with wine, but, before God, I've
learnt to forgive the junior subaltern everything--

"Everything," he added, with passionate conviction.

Doe turned in his seat towards Monty. I knew what my friend was
feeling, because I was feeling the same. These words had a personal
application and were striking home.

"What do you mean by 'everything'?" asked Doe, after looking round
to see that the deck was deserted. "Just getting tight?"

"I said 'everything,'" answered Monty deliberately. "I learnt to do
it out in France. What's the position of the junior subaltern out
there? Under sentence of death, and lucky if he gets a reprieve. The
temptation to experience everything while they can must be pretty
subtle. I don't say it's right--" Monty furrowed his forehead, as a
man does who is trying to think things out--"To say I would forgive
it is to admit that it's wrong, but ah! the boy-officer's been so
grand, and so boyishly unconscious of his grandeur all the time. I
remember one flighty youth, who sat down on the firing-step the
night before he had to go over the top, and wrote a simple letter to
everybody he'd cared for. He wrote to his father, saying: 'If
there's anything in my bank, I'd like my brother to have it. But, if
there's a deficit, I'm beastly sorry.' Think of him putting his
tin-pot house in order like that. He was-