‘Weel gi’e’s a fag . . . . an’ a match,’ said Willie.

He received them in his face, but merely grinned as he languidly removed himself.

The two scrawls so hastily and under such difficulties produced by Macgregor are sacred.  He would never write anything more boyish and loving, nor yet more manly and brave, than those ‘few lines’ to his mother and sweetheart.  There was no time left for posting them when the order came to fall in, but he anticipated an opportunity at one of the stations on the journey south.

Out in the sunshine stood the hundreds of lads whose training had been so brief that some carried ammunition for the first time.  There were few grave faces, though possibly some of the many grins were more reflected than original.  Yet there was a fine general air of eagerness, and at the word ‘attention’ the varied expressions gave place to one of determination.

Boom! boom! boom! . . .  Boom! boom! boom!  Dirl and skirl; skirl and dirl!  So to the heart-lifting, hell-raising music of pipes and drums they marched down to the railway.

At the station it seemed as though they had been expected to break all records in military entraining.  There was terrific haste and occasional confusion, the latter at the loading of the vans.  The enthusiasm was equalled only by the perspiration.  But at last everything and nearly everybody was aboard, and the rumour went along that they had actually broken such and such a battalion’s record.

Private William Thomson, however, had already started his inevitable grumbling.  There were eight in the compartment, and he had stupidly omitted to secure a corner seat.

‘I’ll bet ye I’m a corp afore we get to Dover,’ he bleated.

‘That’s as near as ever ye’ll be to bein’ a corporal,’ remarked the cheerful Jake.  ‘But hoo d’ye ken it’ll be Dover?’

‘I’ll bet ye ——­ Na!  I’ll no tak’ on ony mair wagers.  I’ve a tremenjous bet on wi’ this yin’—­indicating Macgregor—­’every dashed penny I possess—­that we’re boun’ for Flanders.  He says the Dardanelles.’

All excepting Macgregor fell to debating the question.  He had just remembered something he had forgotten to say to Christina; also, he was going away without the ring she was to have given him.  He was not sorry he was going, but he felt sad. . . .

The debate waxed furious.

‘I tell ye,’ bawled Willie, ’we’re for Flanders!  The Ninth’s been there since the——­’

A sudden silence!  What the ——­ was that?  Surely not—­ay, it was!—­an order to detrain!

And soon the whisper went round that they were not bound for anywhere—­unless the ——­ old camp.  The morning’s alarm and all that followed had been merely by way of practice.

At such a time different men have different feelings, or, at least, different ways of expressing them.  Jake laughed philosophically and appeared to dismiss the whole affair.  Willie swore with a curious and seemingly unnecessary bitterness, at frequent intervals, for the next hour or so.  Macgregor remained in a semi-stunned condition of mind until the opportunity came for making a little private bonfire of the two letters; after which melancholy operation he straightway recovered his usual good spirits.