If John dreamed, it was of messy farmyards and draughty fields; but it is improbable that he dreamed at all.

They both went to the War and faced the Hun.  Randle thought of the Hun only as a possible wrecker of his career, therefore as a foe of mankind.  John hardly thought of the Hun except in the course of coming into contact with him, and then he used his bayonet with careless zeal.

Randle steeled himself against the rough edges of soldiering.  He allowed neither the curses of corporals nor the familiarities of second-lieutenants to affect his dreams of the future.  Always, even sotto voce in the last five minutes before going over the top, he kept before John his vision splendid.

It was thoir luck to remain together and unhurt.  Then arrived the great day when the Hun confessed defeat.  Randle vainly awaited a sign from the Commander-in-Chief.

There came, however, a moment when No. 12 Platoon was paraded at the Company Orderly-room.  Particulars were to be taken before filling up demobilisation forms.  Men were to be grouped, on paper, according to the nation’s demand for their return to civil life.

Randle Janvers Binderbeck knew this was der Tag.  Magnanimously he overlooked the delay and felt that HAIG might, after all, have an excuse.  John Hodge remained placid.  He had long ago classed Randle’s goadings with heavies and machine-guns, as unavoidable incidents of warfare.

Randle and John were called into the orderly-room together.  By an obvious error John was first summoned to the table.

“Well, Hodge,” said the Company Sergeant-Major, “what’s your job in civil life?”

“I dunno as I got any special job,” said John.  “I just sort o’ helped on the farm.”

“You must have a group,” said the C.S.M.  “What did you mostly do before the War?”

“S’ far as that do go,” said John, “I were mostly a bird-scarer.”

“‘Bird-scarer,’” said the C.S.M.  “I know there’s a heading for that somewhere.  Agricultural, ain’t it?  ‘Bird-scarer.’  Ah, here we are.  ‘Group 1.’  You’ll be one of the first for release.”

The Company Clerk noted the fact, and the C.S.M. called “Next man.”

Randle Janvers Binderbeck stepped forward.

“What’s your job, Binderbeck?” said the C.S.M.

(To ask Lord NORTHCLIFFE, “Do you sell newspapers?” To ask BOSWELL, “Have you heard of a man named JOHNSON?” TO ask HENRY VIII, “Were you ever married?”)

The futility of the question flabbergasted Randle.

“Come on, man,” said the C.S.M.

Randle made an effort.  “Journalist,” he said.

“‘Journalist,’” said the C.S.M., “‘Journalist.’  Yes, I thought so.  ‘Group 41.’  You’ve got a long way to go, my lad.  You’d have done better if you was a bird-scarer, like Hodge.  Them’s the boys the nation wants—­Group 1 boys.  You sticks in the Army for another six months’ fatigue.  Next man.”