ting for us on the platform at the railway station at half-past
nine. He talked half the night to Thompson about his wonderful stroke
of luck. Just as I dropped off to sleep I heard Thompson quoting
Shakespeare. It was, to the best of my belief, the only time in his life
that Thompson ever did quote Shakespeare.

"Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know,"

he said.

VII~~ HIS GIRL

There were thirty or forty officers in the lounge of the hotel, all
condemned, as I was, to spend the greater part of the day there. Some
men have better luck. It was the fourth time I had been held up in this
wretched place on my way back to France after leave. Dragged out of our
beds at an unreasonable hour, crammed into a train at Victoria, rushed
down to an embarkation port as if the fate of the empire depended on our
getting there without a minute's delay, we find, when we get out of the
train, that the steamer will not start for three hours, four hours,
on this occasion six hours. We are compelled to sit about in an hotel,
desolate and disgusted, when we might have been comfortable in London.

I looked round to see if there were anyone I wanted to talk to. There
were--I had seen them at Victoria--three or four men whom I knew
slightly, but I had no particular wish to spend hours with any one of
them. I had just decided to go out for a walk by myself when I felt a
slap on my shoulder. I turned and saw Daintree. I was uncommonly glad
to see him. Daintree and I were friends before the war and I have always
found him an amusing companion. He greeted me heartily.

"Great luck," he said, "running into you like this. I don't see a single
other man I know in the whole crowd. And any way I particularly wanted
to talk to you. I've got a story to tell you."

We secured a corner and two comfortable chairs. I lit a pipe and waited.
Daintree is a wonderful man for picking up stories. The most unusual
things happen to him and he gets mixed up in far more adventures than
anyone else I know. And he likes telling stories. Usually, the men who
have stories to tell will not talk, and the men who like talking have
nothing interesting to tell. Daintree is exceptional.

"What is it this time?" I asked. "What journalists call a 'sob story,'
or is it meant to be humorous?"

"I should call it a kind of joke," said Daintree; "but my wife says it's
the most pathetic thing she's ever heard. It makes her cry even to