ir to billets and, with
all speed, pack up. And presently ammunition was being served out,
a hundred rounds to each man; and, later, 'iron' rations.

'We're awa' noo!' gasped Macgregor, recovering forcibly from
Willie's greedy clutch a pair of socks knitted by Christina.

'Ay, we're awa'; an' I'll bet ye we're for Flanders,' said Willie,
no less excited.

'Dardanelles!' shouted Macgregor, above the din that filled the
billet.

'Flanders!' yelled Willie, wildly, and started to
dance--unfortunately upon a thin piece of soap.

'Dardanelles!' Macgregor repeated as he gave his friend a hand up.

'Oh ----!' groaned Willie, rubbing the back of his head. 'But
what'll ye bet?'

'What ha'e ye got?'

'I'll bet ye thruppence--the thruppence ye lent me the day afore
yesterday.'

'Done! If ye win, we'll be quits; if ye loss----'

'Na, na! If I win, ye'll ha'e to pay me----'

'Ach, I've nae time to listen to ye. I've twa letters to write.'

'Letters! What aboot the bet?'

'Awa' an' chase yersel'! Are ye no gaun to drap a line to yer aunt?'

'No dashed likely! She's never sent the postal order I asked her
for. If I had got it, I wud ha'e payed what I'm owin' ye,
Macgreegor. By heavens, I wud! I'll tak' ma oath I----'

'Aweel, never heed aboot that,' Macgregor said, soothingly. 'Send
her a post caird an' let me get peace for three meenutes.'

'Ye canna get peace in this,' said Willie, with a glance round the
tumultuous billet.

'I can--if ye haud yer silly tongue.' Macgregor thereupon got his
pad and envelopes (a gift from Miss Tod), squatted on his bed, and
proceeded to gnaw his pencil. The voice of the sergeant was heard
ordering the men to hurry up.

'I'll tell ye what I'll dae,' said Willie, sitting down at his
friend's elbow. 'I'll bet ye a' I owe ye to a bob it's Flanders.
Ye see, I'll maybe get shot, an' I dinna want to dee in debt. An'
I'll send the auld cat a caird wi' something nice on it, to please
ye . . . . Eh?'

'Aw, onything ye like, but for ony sake clay up! Shift!' cried the
distracted Macgregor.

'Weel gi'e's a fag . . . . an' a match,' said Willie.

He received them in his face, but merely grinned as he languidly
removed himself.

The two scrawls so hastily and under such difficulties produced by
Macgregor are sacred. He would never write anything more boyish
and loving, nor yet more manly and brave, than those 'few lines' to
his mother and sweetheart. There was no tim