kept. I do not like to proceed against officers under my
command, so the matter drops here. You must reprimand your servant very
severely, and, I repeat, I am very dissatisfied. You may go, Mr."--here
another glance at the paper before him--"Newcombe. Good afternoon."

I brought my heels together for a very smart salute ... and locked my
spurs! For some seconds I stood swaying helplessly in front of him, then
I toppled forward, and, supporting myself with both hands upon his
table, I at length managed to separate my feet. When I ventured to look
at him again to apologise, I saw that his frown had gone, and his mouth
was twitching in a strong inclination to laugh.

"You are not, I take it, Mr. Newcombe, quite accustomed to wearing
spurs?" he said presently.

I blushed horribly, and, in my confusion, blurted out my reason for
putting them on. This time he laughed unrestrainedly. "Well, you have
certainly impressed me with them." Then, just as I was preparing to go,
he said, "Will you have a glass of whisky, Newcombe, before you go?
Neville," he called to the Staff Captain in the next room, "you might
ask Andrews to bring the whisky and some glasses."

"Good afternoon," said the General, very affably, when, after a careful
salute, I finally took my leave.

Let anyone who will try this recipe for making friends with a General. I
do not venture to guarantee its infallibility, however, for that depends
entirely on the General himself, and, to such, rules and instruction do
not apply.

III

"MUD!"

Those at home in England, with their experience of war books and
photographs, of Zeppelin raids and crowded hospitals, are beginning to
imagine they know all there is to know about war. The truth is that they
still have but little idea of the life in the trenches, and, as far as
mud is concerned, they are delightfully ignorant. They do not know what
mud is.

They have read of Napoleon's "Fourth Element," they have listened to
long descriptions of mud in Flanders and France, they have raised
incredulous eyebrows at tales of men being drowned in the trenches, they
have given a fleeting thought of pity for the soldiers "out there" as
they have slushed home through the streets on rainy nights; but they
have never realised what mud means, for no photograph can tell its slimy
depth, and even the pen of a Zola or a Victor Hugo could give no
adequate idea of it.

And so, till the end of the war, the old story will be c