than of a subaltern in a
regiment of Fusiliers, his habits, including a nervous shrinking from
untidiness and dirt, those of a dear old maid; but the mess thought,
honestly, that he could be knocked into their own social shape, and in
the process of knocking carried out their own traditions. They might
have succeeded if Doggie had discovered any reserve source of pride
from which to draw. But Doggie was hopeless at his work. The mechanism
of a rifle filled him with dismay. He could not help shutting his eyes
before he pulled the trigger. Inured all his life to lethargic action,
he found the smart crisp movements of drill almost impossible to
attain. The riding-school was a terror and a torture. Every second he
deemed himself in imminent peril of death. Said the sergeant-major:

"Now, Mr. Trevor, you're sitting on a 'orse and not a 'olly-bush."

And Doggie would wish the horse and the sergeant-major in hell.

Again, what notion could poor Doggie have of command? He had never
raised his mild tenor voice to damn anybody in his life. At first the
tone in which the officers ordered the men about shocked him. So
rough, so unmannerly, so unkind. He could not understand the cheery
lack of resentment with which the men obeyed. He could not get into
the way of military directness, could never check the polite "Do you
mind" that came instinctively to his lips. Now if you ask a private
soldier whether he minds doing a thing instead of telling him to do
it, his brain begins to get confused. As one defaulter, whose
confusion of brain had led him into trouble, observed to his mates:
"What can you do with a blighter who's a cross between a blinking
Archbishop and a ruddy dicky-bird?" What else, save show in divers and
ingenious ways that you mocked at his authority? Doggie had the
nervous dread of the men that he had anticipated. During his training
on parade, words of command stuck in his throat. When forced out, they
grotesquely mixed themselves together.

The Adjutant gave advice.

"Speak out, man. Bawl. You're dealing with soldiers at drill, not
saying sweet nothings to old ladies in a drawing-room."

And Doggie tried. Doggie tried very hard. He was mortified by his own
stupidity. Little points of drill and duty that the others of his own
standing seemed to pick up at once, almost by instinct, he could only
grasp after long and tedious toil. No one realized that his brain was
stupefied by the awful and unaccustomed physical