ed to sleep, the snorings
and mutterings and coughings began and kept poor Doggie awake most of
the night. The irremediable, intimate propinquity with coarse humanity
oppressed him. He would have given worlds to go out, even into the
pouring rain, and walk about the camp or sleep under a hedge, so long
as he could be alone. And he would think longingly of his satinwood
bedroom, with its luxurious bed and lavender-scented sheets, and of
his beloved peacock and ivory room and its pictures and exquisite
furniture and the great fire roaring up the chimney, and devise
intricate tortures for the Kaiser who had dragged him down to this
squalor.

The meals--the rough cooking, the primitive service--the table manners
of his companions, offended his delicate senses. He missed napkins.
Never could he bring himself to wipe his mouth with the back of his
hand and the back of his hand on the seat of his trousers. Nor could
he watch with equanimity an honest soul pick his teeth with his little
finger. But Doggie knew that acquiescence was the way of happiness and
protest the way of woe.

At first he made few acquaintances beyond those with whom he was
intimately associated. It seemed more politic to obey his instincts
and remain unobtrusive in company and drift away inoffensively when
the chance occurred. One of the men with whom he talked occasionally
was a red-headed little cockney by the name of Shendish. For some
reason or the other--perhaps because his name conveyed a perfectly
wrong suggestion of the Hebraic--he was always called "Mo" Shendish.

"Don't yer wish yer was back, mate?" he asked one day, having waited
to speak till Doggie had addressed and stamped a letter which he was
writing at the end of the canteen table.

"Where?" said Doggie.

"'Ome, sweet 'ome. In the family castle, where gilded footmen 'ands
sausage and mash about on trays and quarts of beer all day long. I
do."

"You're a lucky chap to have a castle," said Doggie.

Mo Shendish grinned. He showed little yellow teeth beneath a little
red moustache.

"I ain't 'alf got one," said he. "It's in Mare Street, Hackney. I wish
I was there now."

He sighed, and in an abstracted way he took a half-smoked cigarette
from behind his ear and relit it.

"What were yer before yer joined? Yer look like a clerk." He
pronounced it as if it were spelt with a "u."

"Something of the sort," replied Doggie cautiously.

"One can always tell you eddicated blokes. Maki