little, and to those who understand mean so much. Of the letters
written home from camp, half at least are on paper which bear the
stamp of the Y.M.C.A.--paper given to all who ask in this hut and
scores of others. Reading, eating, drinking, writing, chatting, or
playing draughts, everybody smokes. Everybody, such is the climate,
reeks with damp. Everybody is hot. The last thing that the air
suggests to the nose of one who enters is the smell of woodbine.

In the other, the inner hall, there are more men, still more closely
packed together, smoking more persistently, and the air is even
denser. Here no one is eating, no one reading. Few attempt to write.
The evening entertainment is about to begin. On a narrow platform at
one end of the hall is the piano. A pianist has taken possession of
it. He has been selected by no one in authority, elected by no
committee. He has occurred, emerged from the mass of men; by virtue
of some energy within him has made good his position in front of the
instrument. He flogs the keys, and above the babel of talk sounds
some rag-time melody, once popular, now forgotten or despised at
home. Here or there a voice takes up the tune and sings or chants it.

The audience begin to catch the spirit of the entertainment. Some one
calls the name of Corporal Smith. A man struggles to his feet and
leaps on to the platform. He is greeted with applauding cheers. There
is a short consultation between him and the pianist. A tentative
chord is struck. Corporal Smith nods approval and turns to the
audience. His song begins. If it is the kind of song that has a
chorus the audience shouts it and Corporal Smith conducts the singing
with waving of his arms.

Corporal Smith is a popular favourite. We know his worth as a singer,
demand and applaud him. But there are other candidates for favour.
Before the applause has died away, while still acknowledgments are
being bowed, another man takes his place on the platform. He is a
stranger and no one knows what he will sing. But the pianist is a man
of genius. Whisper to him the name of the song, give even a hint of
its nature, let him guess at the kind of voice, bass, baritone,
tenor, and he will vamp an accompaniment. He has his difficulties. A
singer will start at the wrong time, will for a whole verse, perhaps,
make noises in a different key; the pianist never fails. Somehow,
before very long, instrument and singer get together--more or less.

There is no dear