day.’  Having now described in a broad way the typical early stages, it may be well, in a somewhat more intimate and personal way, to give an idea of the work, moods, and trend of the average day of the whole tour.  The stress and excitement it meant in the long stretch of country from the first town to the last were extraordinary.  We mustered, as a rule, at nine in the morning for the day’s work and travel, most of the folk of the town where the night had been spent turning out for the send-off.

“The General was on the scene almost invariably to the minute.  Nearly always at those starts he looked grave, resigned, and calm, but unexpectedly careworn.  It was as if he had wrestled with all his problems, with a hundred world-issues in the watches of the night, and was still in the throes of them, and unable for the moment to concentrate his attention on the immediate town and crowd that hurrah’d around him.  But, of course, he stood up and acknowledged the plaudits—­though often as one in a dream.  But the picturesqueness of his appearance in the morning sunshine—­with his white hair, grave face, and green motor garb—­took the imagination of the mass, and without a word from him the people were left happy.

“He looked a new personality at the first important stopping-place, reached usually about an hour before noon.  His air and mood when he stepped to the platform for the public Meeting had undergone a radiant change; all the more radiant, we noticed, if the children who had hailed him from the waysides had been many and strenuous.  There was something of the child in his own face as he stepped to the platform’s edge, and replied to the enthusiasm of the house by clapping his own hands to the people.  There was always something naive and delightful in The General’s preliminary task of applauding the audience.

“Here came his first important address of the day, lasting an hour and a half, or even longer.  It had many ‘notes,’ and displayed The General in many moods.  He was apt to be facetious and drily humorous at first.  He had racy stories to tell—­and none can tell a story for the hundredth time with fresh zest than he—­in illustration of the old and bitter prejudices against The Army.  A typical one was that of an old woman, arrested for the hundredth time for being drunk and disorderly, who was given the option of going to prison or being passed over to The Salvation Army.  Too drunk to realise what she did, she decided for the latter.  She was kindly tended, set in a clean cosy bed, and watched over by a sister till the morning.  When she woke the sunlight streamed through the window, and the happy, unaccustomed surroundings surprised her.  ‘Where am I?’ she exclaimed in bewilderment.  ’You are with The Salvation Army,’ said the sister kindly and softly.  ‘Oh, goodness gracious,’ roared the old woman, ’take me away, or I’ll lose my reputation!’

“Often in these long and comprehensive