There is a monotony in the life of the average soldier or sailor which has a very deadening effect upon character—­seeing the same faces, hearing the same things, performing the same routine in the same kind of way every day, year in and year out, makes him a sort of automaton.  Kipling has told us something of the effect of this thing in “Soldiers Three.”  There came a time when I broke under the strain of this man’s continued insults.  For nearly a year I got comfort from the advice of the brethren.  We had a weekly meeting where our difficulties were considered and prayed over, but the consolation of my brethren finally refused to suffice, and, being a healthy, normal, vigorous animal with some little experience of looking after myself, I began to resent the insults and make some show of defence.  This change of front incensed the bully, and one day he hurled an exceedingly nasty epithet at me—­one of those vulgar but usual epithets current in army speech.  The reference in it to my mother stirred me with indignation and I announced in a fit of anger my willingness to be thrashed or thrash him if the thing was repeated.  It was not only repeated at once, but seizing a lump of dough, he hurled it at my head.  I ducked my head and it hit another man on the jaw, but the gauntlet was on the floor and an hour afterward the port side of the gun deck was a mass of solidly packed sailors and marines.  My brethren came to me one after another.  They quoted scores of texts to make me uncomfortable.  I tried to joke, but my lips were parched and my tongue unwilling to act.  I was pale and trembling.  I knew what I was up against, but determined to see it through.  One text only I could remember in this exigency and I quoted it to Lanky Lawrence, the big sailmaker who was the leader of our sect.  “Lanky, m’ boy,” I said to him, “I’m goin’ to hing m’ hat on one text fur the space of a good thrashin’.”

“What is it?” asked the sailmaker.

“‘As much as lieth in ye, live peaceably wid all men.’  Now I have done that same, and bedad, I have done it to the limit and I’m goin’ to jump into this physical continshun so that of out it I will bring pace!”

“Ye’re all wrong!” said the sailmaker.

“I know it, but from the straight-lacedness of your theology I want a vacation, Lanky, just for the space that it takes to get a lickin’ wan way or th’ other.”  So the thing began.  My chief endeavour was to escape punishment, but the space was exceedingly small between the two big guns and I didn’t succeed very well.  During the first five minutes I was very badly bruised and beaten.  One of my ribs was broken and both eyes almost closed.  Half the time I could not see the bully at all.  In one of the breathing spells, the sailmaker, who, despite his quotations of Scripture, had remained to see the proceedings, whispered something in my ear.  It was a point of advice.  He told me that if I could stand that five minutes longer, my opponent would be outclassed.  The support of Lanky was a great encouragement to me, and a good deal of my fear disappeared.  I began to think harder, to plan, and to plant blows as well as to avoid them.  This excited the crowd and it became frenzied.