"I did have some difficulty in following it, sir," he said.

"H'm! What were you in civil life?"

"Mathematical master in a secondary school, sir."

I could not rise to the occasion. I fled to the mess and ordered a
brandy and soda.

Speaking about rising to the occasion brings to my mind another army
incident in which I did not shine. I was a recruit in the infantry,
and a gym sergeant was putting us through physical jerks. He told us
the familiar tale that although we had broken our mothers' hearts we
wouldn't break his; in short he put the wind up us. I got very nervous.

"Right turn!" he roared, and I thought he said "Right about turn."

He told the squad to stand easy, and then he eyed me curiously.

"You! Big fellow! Take that smile off your face!"

I don't know why he said that for I couldn't have smiled at that moment
for anything less than my ticket. He studied me carefully for a bit,
then enlightenment seemed to dawn on him.

"I got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"I know wot's wrong with you! You've got a stupid face; you can't
think; you never thought in yer life."

I looked on the ground.

"_Did_ yer ever think in yer life?"

"No, sergeant," I said humbly.

"I blinkin' well thought so!" he said and moved away.

Then the worm turned. Who was he that he should bully a scholar and a
gentleman? I would lower him to the dust.

"Sergeant!"

He turned quickly.

"Wot d'ye want?" and he tried to freeze me with his look.

"It isn't my fault I can't think, sergeant; I was unfortunate enough to
spend five years at a university."

His mouth gaped, and his eyes stared, but only for a moment. Then he
rose to the occasion.

"I blinkin' well thought so!" he cried. "Squad! . . . . Tshun!"

* * * * *

It is Sunday night, and I have just been to town. At the Cross I stood
and listened to a revivalist bellowing from a soap-box. His message
was Salvation but I was more interested in the man than his message.
Consciously he is out to save sinners, but I suspect that unconsciously
he is out to draw attention to himself. I do not blame him. I do the
same thing when I publish a book; Lloyd George and George Robey and the
revivalist and I are all striving each in his little corner to draw
attention to ourselves.

The exhibition impulse is in every child. A child loves to run about
naked, but then society in the form of the mother steps in and says:
"You m