Tom made his way to the Thorn and Thistle, but was informed that Polly would not be home until eleven o'clock. He therefore wandered about the town until that time, and again appeared at the public-house door. But it was not until twelve o'clock that Polly made her appearance.
"Anything the matter, Tom?" she asked.
"Ay, I have joined the Army."
"Thou'st noan been such a fool?"
"I have noan been a fool," said Tom, "I couldn't help it."
Polly Powell looked at him rather angrily, then she said: "If you have done it, what do you want to speak to me about it for?"
"I shall be off to-morrow," replied Tom. "The recruiting officer told me I must report at the Town Hall to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."
"Where will you go?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Tom.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
"I thought," said Tom, "that is—I thought as I was going away I'd—I'd—— Look here, Polly, you are going to keep true to me while I'm away, aren't you?"
"I never thought much of soldiers," said Polly. "Besides——"
"Besides what?" asked Tom. "Look here, Polly, I gave up Alice Lister for you, and if you had been at that meeting you would see as how I couldn't do anything else."
"Do you think you might get a commission and be an officer?" asked the girl.
"I never thought about that," said Tom.
Polly hesitated a second, then she said: "Of course I'll be true to you, Tom. There, good night, I must go in."
The next morning as Tom was making his way towards the Town Hall he met Alice Lister. At first he was going to pass her by without notice, but when he saw the look on her face he stopped. She came towards him with outstretched hand.
"Tom," she said, "I've heard about last night, and it was splendid of you. I am glad you were the first. I am told that your going up in that way led scores of others to go."
"Have you heard that?" said Tom. "I never thought of it."
"I am sure you will be a good soldier, Tom. We are all proud of you, and—and we shall be thinking about you, and praying for you."
Tom laughed uneasily. "I thought you had forgotten all about me, Alice," he said.
"Why should you think so?"
"I have heard there is a young parson going after you. Are you going to make a match of it, Alice?" And again he laughed.
"Good-bye, Tom, I hope you will do well." And Alice left him with a strange fluttering in his heart.
Tom joined the Loyal North Lancashires. I will not say which battalion, as the mention of it might cause some of my readers to identify the lad whose story I am telling. His unit was located at a large Lancashire town some thirty miles from Brunford. Here he was initiated into the secrets of a soldier's life. At first everything was a drudgery to him; he could not see the meaning of what he was doing, could not understand how "forming fours" and other parts of his drill could help him to be a soldier. Still, being a fairly sharp, common-sense lad, he picked up his work quickly, and in the course of a few weeks was physically much better for his training. At the end of three months he was nearly two inches taller, and more than three inches bigger around the chest than at the time he joined. He began to enjoy his work, too. The young subaltern whose duty it was to train the company had more than once singled him out as a capable fellow, and as the cold winter days passed away and spring began to advance Tom could undergo a twenty- or thirty-mile march without weariness. He was well fed, well housed, and well clothed, and while his pocket money was not extravagant, he had enough for his needs.
Indeed in many respects it would have been better for Tom if he had had less money. The influence of the Thorn and Thistle was still strong upon him, and I have to relate with sadness that on more than one occasion Tom barely escaped punishment for being drunk and disorderly. Most of the lads with whom he was brought into contact were, on the whole, steady and well-behaved. On the other hand, however, there were a number of them who had a bad influence upon him. In fact, while he narrowly escaped being brought before his superiors for his various misdemeanours, Tom's character was steadily deteriorating. The first flush of enthusiasm, and loyalty, and even something nobler than loyalty, which had been aroused in him by the speaker who had caused him to join the army, slowly faded away. The men with whom he associated did not help him to be on the side of the angels, rather they appealed to what was coarse and debased in his nature.
To tell the truth, there was very little in Tom's life which tended to ennoble him. It is true there was a service for soldiers every Sunday morning in one of the big buildings in the town, and while Tom, lover of music as he had always been, was somewhat influenced by the singing of the men, and while the hymns reminded him of his Sunday-school days, they did not move him very deeply. He paid little or no attention to the ministrations of the chaplain. Neither did he avail himself of the many meetings which were held for soldiers by the various churches in the town. Indeed, up to this point Tom was not the better, but the worse, for joining the Army.
There was in Tom's company a young fellow much superior to the rank and file of the soldiers. He was a young Cornish lad, the son of a well-to-do father who had sent him to a good public school, and from thence to Lancashire to learn the manufacturing business. This young fellow, Robert Penrose by name, although belonging socially to a different class from that in which Tom moved, took a liking to him. He was amused at his good humour, and seemed to be grieved at seeing him drifting with the dregs of the battalion.
"I say, Pollard," he said to him on one occasion, "do you know you are making an ass of yourself? You have the makings of a man in you, and yet you mix with that lot."
"Why shouldn't I?" said Tom.
"Because you have more brains than they have, are better educated, and are capable of better things."
"Why shouldn't I have a lark while I can?" replied Tom. "I shall have to go to the front in a month or two, so I will just make hay while the sun shines."
"Make hay!" replied Penrose, "make a fool of yourself, you mean. I hear that years ago you were on the way to becoming an educated chap, and now everybody's looking upon you as one of the drinking fellows."
"It's all very well for you to talk," said Tom, "you're a swell."
"I am a private just as you are," replied Penrose.
"Ay, but you will be getting a commission soon, and there's no chance of that for me. I don't belong to your sort. Besides, what can I do? There's no places but the theatre, the cinema show, and the public-house when the day's work is over."
"That's all nonsense," replied Penrose.
"Well, what is there?" asked Tom.
"There's the Y.M.C.A."
"Y.M.C.A.!" laughed Tom, "none o' that for me! I know some of the fools who go to the Y.M.C.A. meetings."
"Why are they fools?"
"Because they go and hear a lot of pie-jaw; they are a lot of ninnies, that's what they are."
"They don't get hauled over the coals for misbehaviour, anyhow."
"No, they haven't got pluck enough. I didn't come into the Army to become religious; I joined to fight the blooming Germans, and what's fighting got to do with religion?"
"Maybe it has a good deal if you feel you are fighting for a good cause," replied Penrose; "besides, the Y.M.C.A. chaps are not ninnies, as you call them. Some of them are the best fellows we have."
"No religious lolly-pops for me," said Tom, "I had enough of that when I lived i' Brunford."
"Of course you can go your own way," said Penrose. "I suppose you will spend your evening in the public-house, or at some cinema show, or perhaps you will be larking around with some silly girls; but I am going to the Y.M.C.A."
"Do you go there?" cried Tom in astonishment. For Penrose was looked upon as anything but goody-goody, and he was generally admired. He was the best boxer in the company, was smart in drill, could do long marches with the best of them, and was always ready to do a kindly action. Besides all that, his evident education and social superiority made him a marked man. It was rumoured, too, that he had refused a commission.
"Of course I go," replied Penrose.
"What, and listen to their pie-jaw?"
"There is precious little pie-jaw, as you call it," was Penrose's response. "We have jolly good entertainments almost every night, and some of the fellows who come to talk to us are not half bad, I can tell you! Besides, I go there to rub up my conversational French."
"Conversational French!" said Tom, only dimly understanding what he meant. "Dost 'a mean to say that they learn you French there?"
"There's a Frenchman who gives his services free," replied Penrose. "It's jolly good of him too, for the poor wretch has hardly a sixpence to his name; still he does it. In his way he's quite a French scholar, and he has helped me no end."
"Ay, but you learnt French at school," said Tom; "he would have nowt to do wi' a chap like me."
"Don't be an ass. Why, dozens of fellows go to him every night. A few weeks ago they didn't know a word of French, and now they are picking it up like mad. Besides all that, the Y.M.C.A. rooms are open every night, they have all sorts of games there, lots of newspapers, and they give you every facility for writing letters and that sort of thing."
"By gum!" said Tom, "I didn't know that."
"That's because you have been making an ass of yourself. While the other fellows have been improving themselves you have been loafing around public-houses. Good night," and Penrose left him alone.
Tom felt rather miserable; he was somewhat angered too. He didn't like the way Penrose had spoken to him. In the old days he had been proud of his respectability, and before he had made Polly Powell's acquaintance, and when Alice Lister had shown a preference for him, Tom was very ambitious. Now he knew he had not only sunk in the social scale, but he had less self-respect than formerly. "After all," he argued to himself presently, "I didn't join the Army to go to Sunday School, I joined to lick the blooming Germans."
Still he could not help recalling the feelings which possessed him on the night he came out of the great hall at the Mechanics' Institute. He had felt stirred then; felt indeed as though he had heard the call of some higher power. Hitherto he had looked upon wearing the King's uniform as something ignoble; then it had appeared to him almost as a religious act. The speaker had called upon him to fight against brutality, butchery, devilry, and his heart had burned at the thought of it. Something which he felt was holy made him leap to his feet and give his name, yet now he found his chief delights in coarse associations and debasing habits.
He was still fond of Polly Powell. The girl's coarse beauty made a strong appeal to him, but he remembered Alice Lister; remembered the things which she had said to him, and he could not help sighing.
"Eh, Tom, is that you?"
Tom turned and saw a tall raw-boned fellow in kilts.
"Ay, Alec; wher't' baan?"
"There's a wee lassie I promised to meet to-nicht," replied the other.
Alec McPhail belonged to the Black Watch, a battalion of which was stationed in the town, and Tom and Alec had become friends.
"What's thy lass's name?" asked Tom.
"I dinna ken reightly, except that they ca' her Alice. Come wi' me, Tom; mebbe she has a friend."
"Nay," replied Tom, "I doan't feel like skylarking with the lasses to-night."
"Weel, I'm not ower particular mysel', but I have not much siller. Three bawbees will have to last me till Saturday, otherwise I'd be asking ye to come and have a drop of whisky wi' me."
"I am stony-broke too," said Tom. "I expect I have been a fool."
"Nay, man, nae man's a fool who spends his siller on good whisky."
By this time they were walking together towards the outskirts of the town.
"What is this lass o' yourn?" asked Tom after a silence.
"I think she's a wee bit servant lassie," replied the Scotchman; "she's a bonny wee thing too, and fairly enamoured wi' a kilt."
Tom still walked on aimlessly; the thought of going to meet a girl who might never come did not have much attraction for him; still he didn't know where to go.
"I don't think I'll come any further," he said presently.
"Nay, what makes ye alter your mind, Tom?"
"I think I'll go back to the Black Cow," replied Tom, "'appen there's some chaps there who'll stand a treat. After all, Penrose wur right when he called me an ass."
"Penrose is what you call a gentleman ranker, I'm thinking."
"Summat o' that sort," replied Tom,
"What did he call you an ass for?"
"Well, you see I've been a bit of a fool; I've spent all my brass, and I've took up wi' a lot o' lads as is no use to me. Penrose is gone to the Y.M.C.A. You wouldn't think it perhaps, McPhail, but I wur a bit in the religious line myself once. I wur educating myself too, and I had as nice a lass as there was i' Brunford, but I took up wi' the daughter of a man as kept a public-house, and—well, there you are."
"And you have chucked releegion?" asked McPhail.
"Ay, there's nowt in it, and it keeps a chap from having a good time—but I doan't know," and Tom sighed.
"I am a wee bit of a philosopher mysel'," replied McPhail, "and I have reasoned it all out very carefully. My mither, now, is what you might call a godly woman; my father was an elder in the old U. P. Kirk, and I was brought up in a godly fashion. But, as I said, I reasoned it out. I read Colonel Ingersoll's Lectures, and he proved to me that Moses made a lot of mistakes. So, weel, presently I got fond of whisky, and I came to the conclusion that releegion was not logical."
"I reckon as you're none too logical," replied Tom.
"Ay, man, but I was well groonded in the fundamentals! I could say the Shorter Catechism when I was a wee kiddie of seven years old! How am I no logical?"
"After all," replied Tom, "it's noan logical to give up religion because of Colonel Ingersoll's Lectures. The religion my Alice had went deeper nor that. Ay, but there, I am a fool to be talking about it. Good night, McPhail, I will go back now." And Tom went back towards the town alone.
The following Saturday night Tom was again drunk and disorderly. This time he did not escape punishment. Tom never felt so degraded in his life as when he was undergoing that punishment. He had joined the Army under the influence of a noble impulse. He had felt that he was doing a noble thing. Not that he was proud of it, because in reality he could do nothing else; when he came to think of it afterwards he knew that he was doing nothing but his duty. All the same he was elated by his action. It had made him hold his head higher, and made his heart beat fast; now, after a little more than three months' training, he had actually been called before his officers for being a disgrace to his company. The colonel, who was a stern soldier, was also a kindly gentleman. He recognised at a glance that Tom was not a gutter lad; saw, too, that he had the making of a man in him. That was the reason perhaps why he used stronger language than usual, and for meting out a heavier punishment.
"What excuse have you for yourself?" asked the colonel. "You have evidently had some education and were meant for better things. Why did you make a beast of yourself?" His words cut Tom like a knife. "Make a beast of myself," he thought, "has Tom Pollard come to that?"
"Where is there to go, sir, when one's day's work is over?" he asked almost sulkily.
"Go?" replied the colonel, a little nonplussed, "go?" And then remembering a visitor who came to him the previous day, he said: "There's the Y.M.C.A. hall; they teach you something useful there."
After his punishment was over Tom could not help seeing that the better class of fellows somewhat shunned him. He could not say he was boycotted, but they showed no inclination to be in his company. This touched his pride. "I am as good as they are," he said to himself, "and a bit better nor some on 'em." He was delighted, however, to notice that Penrose acted differently from the rest, although he was by no means flattering.
"I told you you were an ass," he said. "If you go on in this way, you'll end by being kicked out of the Army."
Again Tom was wounded deeply. "Kicked out of the Army!" He had never dreamed of that. What! he, Tom Pollard, who had won prizes at the Mechanics' Institute, and who had ambition of one day becoming a manufacturer on his own account, kicked out of the Army!
"Come now, Tom," said Penrose, who almost repented of having spoken so sharply, "it is not too late to turn over a new leaf, and you have the makings of a fine fellow in you."
"I'd rather be kicked out of the Army as a straight chap than to be a blooming white-livered hypocrite."
"And do you think I'm a white-livered hypocrite?"
"A sort of plaster saint, anyhow," retorted Tom.
"Anything but that, Tom," replied Penrose; "all the same I've taken a liking to you."
"You have a nice way of showing it," replied Tom.
His anger was all gone now, for he instinctively felt that Penrose meant to be friendly.
"Come with me to the Y.M.C.A. hall to-night," urged Penrose.
"Ay, and be preached to," said Tom, yielding rapidly to the other.
"I promise you there will be no preaching," said Penrose, with a laugh, "unless you like to wait for it. Come now."
"All right, then," said Tom still sulkily, but glad that he had yielded. A few minutes later they entered a large hall where perhaps six or seven hundred soldiers had gathered.
There are few counties in England where music is more cultivated than in Lancashire, and that night Tom listened almost spellbound. Songs that he knew and loved were sung; songs which he had heard Alice Lister sing. Recitations were given in broad Lancashire dialect which gave him keen enjoyment. More than all this there was a feeling of good-fellowship; the Y.M.C.A. workers were evidently on the friendliest of terms with the men, while there was no suggestion of goody-goodyism.
"This is a special occasion, I suppose," said Tom to Penrose.
"Oh no, they have entertainments like this almost every night. All the musical people in the district give their services."
"What for?" asked Tom.
"Just to give us soldiers a good time; but we must be going now."
"Why?" asked Tom, "it's not late."
"But there's a fellow just going to speak, and as you object to being preached to we had better go."
Tom rose almost reluctantly. He was not sure that he didn't want to hear what the man had to say.
"Besides," went on Penrose, "I haven't shown you over the place yet. I want to take you into the rooms which are provided for writing letters, and playing games; there are the French classes too, and I should like you to see what they are like."
That night at eleven o'clock, as Tom went back to the house where he had been billeted, he felt that he had indeed made a fool of himself. The Y.M.C.A. rooms had the feeling of home; none of the people there wanted his money, and he was the better, not the worse, for going.
"Of course," said Tom to himself as he went to bed, "religious lolly-pops are not fit for a grown-up man, but it wur a grand evening; I am sure I could pick up that French, too. Let's see, how did it go?
"Je suis I am. Vous Êtes you are. Nous sommes we are. Ils sont they are.
"Why, it's easy enough," thought Tom, "I could pick it up, and then when I go over to France I shall be able to speak their lingo."
"Where have you been lately, Tom?" asked Alec McPhail when he met him some time later. "I have been to all the public-houses where we used to meet and have not set my eyes on you."
"Nay," replied Tom, "I have been to the Y.M.C.A."
"Nay, Tom, a man like you, with your power of reasoning an' a', are surely not turning releegious?"
"Nay, I am noan turning religious," replied Tom, "but I tell you, man, the entertainments are fair grand; champion, in fact! I am learning French too."
"I suppose the entertainments are sandwiched between the dry bread of releegion?" replied the Scotchman.
"Nay, I have nowt to do wi' religion," replied Tom. "I have just listened to the singing and the recitations, and then when the chap has got up to talk I've gone into the writing-room or to the French class."
"Will you tell me about it?" asked the Scotchman.
Tom gave him a full description.
"You see," he said, "it's not like Sunday School, or anything of that sort. There's lots of folks what can sing, and play the piano very well, and can recite champion. And they give us a good concert every night. Then there's a room where we can go in and read papers, write letters, or play draughts or bagatelle and all that sort of thing. Then there's a good library where you can get any book for the asking. Ay, those religious folks have been kind; they have sent hundreds of books for us chaps to read, good books and all. Then there's a class-room where you can learn French."
"And will there be a bar where you can get some whisky?" asked the Scotchman.
"Nay," replied Tom, "there's no whisky or owt o' that sort, but there's a refreshment bar where you can get tea and coffee, and tarts, and sandwiches."
"For nothing?" asked the Scotchman eagerly.
"Nay, not for nothing, but cheaper than you can buy it at any shop. From what I can hear they sell it at just cost price."
"And," said the Scotchman, "do you mean, Tom, that you will give up the evenings we used to have, for that sort of thing?"
"I don't say I've turned teetotaler," replied Tom, "although I have took nothing sin'—sin' I were—disgraced, and I doan't mean to for a bit. You see, the chaps at the Y.M.C.A. doan't tell you not to go to the public-houses and then provide nothing better for you. Anyhow, I've been to the Y.M.C.A. every night sin' I had my punishment, and what's more, I'm going again."
A week later there was great excitement amongst the soldiers. They had now been nearly four months in this Lancashire town, and orders came for the Loyal North Lancashires and the Black Watch to move south. They heard that they were going to Surrey, and were to be situated at a camp in the most beautiful part of that county. Tom was delighted, for although he had made many friends at the Y.M.C.A and grown to know many people in this Lancashire town, the thought of a change appealed to him strongly. He was young, and longed for new associations and new surroundings. Besides, it meant a step nearer towards his desires. He was told that his battalion was to be moved to Surrey preparatory to orders for the Front. Possibly they might be moved to Salisbury Plain or Shoreham afterwards, but it was quite on the cards that they would go straight from the Surrey camp to France or Flanders.
As soon as Tom heard this, he applied for leave, and, the young lieutenant having reported that Tom had behaved very well since his punishment, and had apparently turned over a new leaf, it was granted.
He did not spend much of his time with his father and mother, but as soon as possible made his way to the Thorn and Thistle. He had saved practically all his last four weeks' regimental pay, a great part of which he spent on a present for Polly Powell. On the whole he was satisfied with Polly's reception, although he felt that she was not quite so affectionate towards him as she had been during the days when she was trying to win him away from Alice Lister. It was during his stay in Brunford, too, that Tom gave way to the temptation of drink.
"Nay, Tom," said Polly when he said he would only take a bottle of ginger ale, "I never heard of a soldier who was worth his salt but would not take his beer like a man." And Tom, who could not bear to be laughed at, yielded to Polly's persuasions.
"Ay, she's a grand lass," he said to himself, "and a rare beauty too; she's got eyes like black diamonds, and a face like a June rose." All the same he remembered some of the ladies who had come to the Y.M.C.A. to sing to the soldiers, and he had a feeling, which he could not put into words, that Polly was a little bit loud. Her dresses were always highly coloured, while her hats were bedecked with big feathers. Of course these things suited her to perfection, and although he did not raise the slightest objection to them there were doubts at the back of his mind. Neither did he altogether like the way in which she bandied jokes, which were not always of the best taste, with the young fellows who came to the Thorn and Thistle. Altogether it was not an unmixed sorrow to him when his leave was up and he returned to his regiment.
He did not see Alice Lister during his visit, and if the truth must be told he was glad of it. Polly Powell's spell was strong upon him, and he said repeatedly that Alice Lister was not his sort.
A week after this Tom's battalion was ordered south, and amidst much excitement the men boarded the train which took them there. He had hoped they would stay in London for at least one night, but only two hours were allowed between the time they reached Euston from the time the train was due to leave Waterloo. Discipline was somewhat relaxed during the journey, and when at length Tom entered the train at Waterloo he noticed that many of the men were the worse for drink.
"What blithering fools they are!" said Penrose to him, as seated in their carriage they saw many of their companions staggering along the platform. Tom was silent at this, nevertheless he thought a great deal.
It was now the beginning of May, and the Surrey meadows were bedecked with glory. Tom, who had never been out of Lancashire before, could not help being impressed with the beauty he saw everywhere. It was altogether different from the hard bare hills which he had been accustomed to in the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. The air was sweet and pure too. Here all nature seemed generous with her gifts; great trees abounded, flowers grew everywhere, while fields were covered with such a glory of green as he had never seen before. By and by the train stopped at a little station, and then commenced the march to the camp for which they were bound. Penrose and Tom walked side by side.
"This is not new to you, I suppose?" Tom queried.
"No," said Penrose, "I know almost every inch round here."
"I saw you looking out of the train at a place we passed what they call Godalming; you were looking at a big building on the top of a hill there. What was it?"
"It was my old school," said Penrose, "Charterhouse; the best school in the world."
"Ay, did you go there?" asked Tom. "Why, it was fair grand. How long were you there?"
"Five years," said Penrose.
"And to think of your becoming a Tommy like me!" Tom almost gasped.
"Well, what of that?"
"You might have been an officer if you had liked, I suppose?"
Penrose nodded.
"It wur just grand of you."
"Nothing grand at all," said Penrose. "A chap who doesn't do his bit at a time like this is just a skunk, that's all; and I made up my mind that I would learn what a private soldier's life was like before I took a commission."
"Well, you know now," said Tom, "and you will be an officer soon, I expect."
"My uniform's ordered," said Penrose.
Tom was silent for some time.
"I suppose you won't be friends with me any more, and I shall have to salute you," he remarked presently.
"Discipline is discipline," replied Penrose. "As to friendship, I am not given to change."
The battalion, eleven hundred strong, climbed a steep hill, under great overshadowing trees. Birds were singing gaily; May blossom was blooming everywhere; the green of the trees was wonderful to behold. Presently they came to a great clearing in a pine forest. The life of the country seemed suddenly to end, and they arrived at a newly improvised town. There were simply miles of wooden huts, while the sound of men's voices, the neighing of horses, and the rolling of wheels were heard on every hand. These huts, from what Tom could see, were nearly all of them about two hundred feet long, while around them were great open spaces where all vegetation had been worn away by the tramp of thousands of feet. The men, who had been singing all the way during their march, became silent; the scene was so utterly different from what they had left. That morning they had left a grim, grey, smoky manufacturing town; in the evening they had entered a clearing surrounded by sylvan beauty.
"I feel as though I could stay here for ever," said Tom. "But look at yon'," and he pointed to a long, low hut, at the door of which the letters "Y.M.C.A." were painted. "Why, they're here too!"
"Yes," said Penrose, "there's not a camp in the country where you don't find the Y.M.C.A. huts; for that matter they are on the Continent too."
"But yon' place must have cost a lot of money," said Tom, "you can't build shanties like that without a lot of brass. Where did they get the brass from?"
"I expect the people who believe in religious lolly-pops gave it to them," replied Penrose.
It took Tom two or three days before he became accustomed to his new surroundings. He found that in this camp nearly thirty thousand men had gathered; men who had come from every corner of the country—Cameronians, Durhams, Devons, Welsh, Duke of Cornwalls, they were all here. Tom had rather expected that the advent of a new battalion would have caused some excitement, but scarcely any notice seemed to be taken; their coming was a matter of course. Three days before a battalion had left for the Front, and they had come to take their place, that was all. Instead of being billeted at various houses, as they had been in Lancashire, they had now to sleep sixty in a hut. Tom laughed as he saw the sleeping arrangements. Beds were placed close together all around the building; these beds were of the most primitive nature, and consisted of a sack of straw, a couple of rugs, and what might be called a pillow. These sacks of straw were raised some three or four inches from the floor by means of boarding, and had only the suggestion of a spring. No privacy was possible, but everything was clean and well-kept. In a few days Tom got to like it. The weather was beautiful, the country was lovely, and the air was pure. Tom had a good appetite in Lancashire, now he felt ravenous. The work was hard, harder than he had had in Lancashire, but he enjoyed it; on the whole, too, he could not help noticing that many of the men seemed of a better type than those which made up his own battalion With the exception of Penrose, nearly all his company were drafted from coal pits and cotton mills. Here were numbers of university men, public-school men, and the like. Truly the Army was a great democracy.
One thing made Tom feel very sad, and that was the loss of Penrose. He had been in Surrey only a few days when he was gazetted and was removed to another camp about four miles away. Still he made new friends and was on the whole happy. He found, too, that even the men, whose conduct was anything but praiseworthy in Lancashire, were sober here. Only a dozen public-houses existed, within the radius of almost as many miles; and as the rules of the canteen were very strict, there were few temptations to drink. Discipline was far easier, and on the whole the men were better looked after.
At the end of the second day in this Surrey camp, he was going with a message to the officers' quarters, when he stopped suddenly.
"Ay, can that be you?" he said aloud.
"What do you mean, my man?" And then Tom saw that the person whom he recognised wore a lieutenant's uniform.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Tom, saluting, "but—but—yes, sir, it is you."
"Oh, is that you, Pollard? I see you have enlisted, then; that's all right. You'll know me another time, won't you?"
"Yes, Mr. Waterman. That is, yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir."
"Yes, I'm all right. Good night," and the officer passed on.
"By George!" said Tom to himself, "I didn't expect to meet Waterman here, but there's nothing to wonder about, after all."
