alty. I'm going to mould
myself on you.'"

He had not known Edgar Doe forty-eight hours, but he had his
measure.

"All right," said Doe, "I'll come."

"Tell us about the other thing, confession," I suggested.

"Not now, Rupert. 'Ye are babes,' and I've fed you with milk.
Confession'll come, but it's strong meat for you yet."

"I don't know," demurred I.

Monty's face brightened, as the fact of one who sees the dawn of
victory. But Doe, though his whole nature moved him to be a
picturesque High Churchman, yet, because he wanted Monty to think
well of him, drew up abruptly at the prospect of a detailed
confession.

"You'll never get me to come to confession," he laughed,
"never--never--never."

"My dear Gazelle, don't be silly," rejoined Monty. "I'll have you
within the week."

"You won't!"

"I will! Oh, I admit I'm out to win you two. I want to prove that
the old Church of England has everything you public schoolboys need,
and capture you and hold you. I want all the young blood for her. I
want to prove that you can be the pride of the Church of England.
And I'll prove it. I'll prove it on this ship."

Whether he proved it, I can't say. I am only telling a tale of what
happened. I dare say that, if instead of Monty, the Catholic, some
militant Protestant had stepped at this critical moment into our
lives, full of enthusiasm for his cause and of tales of the
Protestant martyrs, he would have won us to his side, and provided a
different means of spiritual recovery. I don't know.

For the tale I'm telling is simply this: that in these moments, when
every turn of the ship's screw brought us nearer Gibraltar, the gate
of the Great Sea, and God alone knew what awaited us in the
Gallipoli corner of that Mediterranean arena, came Padre Monty,
crashing up to us with his Gospel of the saints. It was the ideal
moment for a priest to do his priestly work, and bring our Mother
Church to our side. And Monty failed neither her nor us.

CHAPTER IV

THE VIGIL

Sec.1

Night or day, the ship ploughed remorselessly on. It was steered a
bewildering zigzag course to outwit the submarines. The second day
of the voyage saw us in the Bay of Biscay, a hundred miles off Cape
Finisterre. The sun got steadily hotter, and the sea bluer.

And the subalterns blessed the sun, because it gave them an excuse
for putting on the white tennis-flannels which they had brought for
deck wear. All honest boys, we know, fancy them