e
grimacing of the men as they used spur and thong, the fierce straining
of straps and chains, the creaking, the grinding, and finally the
swaying of the 90-millimetre gun, coddled and polished, as it swung
helplessly forward, stern first, and its long nose describing an arc in
the air behind--these things marvellously quickened the blood.

"Good men!" said Captain Resmith, enthusiastic. "It's great, isn't it?
You know, there's nothing so fine as a battery--nothing in the whole
world."

George heartily agreed with him.

"This is the best Battery in the Division," said Resmith religiously.

And George was religiously convinced that it was.

He was astoundingly happy. He thought, amazed, that he had never been so
happy, or at any rate so uplifted, in all his life. He simply could not
comprehend his state of bliss, which had begun that morning at 6.30 when
the grey-headed, simple-minded servant allotted to him had wakened him,
according to instructions, with a mug of tea. Perhaps it was the far,
thin sound of bugles that produced the rapturous effect, or the fresh
air blowing in through the broken pane of the hut, or the slanting
sunlight, or the feeling that he had no responsibility and nothing to do
but blindly obey orders.

He had gone to sleep as depressed as he was tired. A sense of futility
had got the better of him. The excursion of the afternoon had certainly
been ridiculous in a high degree. He had hoped for a more useful
evening. Captain Resmith had indeed taken him to the horse-lines, and he
had tried a mount which was very suitable, and Captain Resmith had said
that he possessed a naturally good seat and hands, and had given him a
few sagacious tips. It was plain to him that Resmith had the Major's
orders to take him in tutelage and make an officer of him. But the
satisfactoriness of the evening had suddenly ceased. Scarcely had
Resmith begun to expound the orders, and George to read the thrilling
words, 'Second Lieutenant G.E. Cannon to ride with Captain Resmith,'
when the mess had impulsively decided to celebrate the last night in
camp by a dinner at the hotel near the station, and George, fit for
nothing more important, had been detailed to run off and arrange for the
rich repast. The bulk of the mess was late to arrive, and George spent
the time in writing a descriptive and falsely gay letter on slips of
yellow Army paper to Lois. The dinner, with its facile laughter and
equally facile cynicism, had