“Go it, ‘Arry!” he shouted, shrilly.  “Many’s the time h’ I’ve ’eard you at the old Shoreditch!”

So I went it as well as I could, and I never did have a more appreciative audience.  My little cockney friend seemed to take a particular personal pride in me.  I think he thought he had found me, and that he was, in an odd way, responsible for my success with his mates.  And so he was especially glad when they cheered me and thanked me as they did.

My concert didn’t last long, for we had to be getting on, and the company of sick men had just so much time, too, to reach their destination—­Boulogne, whence we had set out.  When it was over I said good-by to the men, and shook hands with particular warmth with the little cockney.  It wasn’t every day I was likely to meet a man who had often heard me at the old Shoreditch!  After we had stowed Johnson and the piano away again, with a few less cigarettes, now, to get in Johnson’s way, we started, and as long as we were in sight the little cockney and I were waving to one another.

I took some of the cigarettes into the car I was in now.  And as we sped along we were again in the thick of the great British war machine.  Motor trucks and ambulances were more frequent than ever, and it was a common occurrence now to pass soldiers, marching in both directions—­to the front and away from it.  There was always some-one to recognize me and start a volley of “Hello, Harrys” coming my way, and I answered every greeting, you may be sure, and threw cigarettes to go with my “Hellos.”

Aye, I was glad I had brought the cigarettes!  They seemed to be even more welcome than I had hoped they would be, and I only wondered how long the supply would hold out, and if I would be able to get more if it did not.  So Johnson, little by little, was getting more room, as I called for more and more of the cigarettes that walled him in in his tonneau.

About noon, as we drove through a little town, I saw, for the first time, a whole flock of airplanes riding the sky.  They were swooping about like lazy hawks, and a bonnie sight they were.  I drew a long breath when I saw them, and turned to my friend Adam.

“Well,” I said, “I think we’re coming to it, now!”

I meant the front—­the real, British front.

Suddenly, at a sharp order from Captain Godfrey, our cars stopped.  He turned around to us, and grinned, very cheerfully.

“Gentlemen,” he said, very calmly, “we’ll stop here long enough to put on our steel helmets.”

He said it just as he might have said:  “Well, here’s where we will stop for tea.”

It meant no more than that to him.  But for me it meant many things.  It meant that at last I was really to be under fire; that I was going into danger.  I was not really frightened yet; you have to see danger, and know just what it is, and appreciate exactly its character, before you can be frightened.  But I had imagination enough to know what that order meant, and to have a queer feeling as I donned the steel helmet.  It was less uncomfortable than I had expected it to be—­lighter, and easier to wear.  The British trench helmets are beautifully made, now; as in every other phase of the war and its work they represent a constant study for improvement, lightening.