Curiously enough it was the Y.M.C.A. that first introduced Sydney Baxter to what, for want of a better term, we will call the sporting side of life.  There’s a fine sporting side to every real Englishman’s life—­don’t let there be any mistake about that.  “He is a sportsman” is not, as a few excellent people seem to believe, a term of reproach.  It is one of the highest honours conferred on an officer by the men he commands.  And in the ranks “a good sport” is often another way of spelling “a hero.”

It was, as I say, at the Y.M.C.A. that this one young man was first taken out of himself and his quiet home surroundings, first became interested in the convivialities of life.  In those days, to be quite frank about it, a certain settled staidness of demeanour, a decided aloofness from the outside world, marked many religious households.  A book of unexceptional moral tone, and probably containing what was known as “definite teaching,” was the main relaxation after working hours—­that, and an occasional meeting and some secretarial work for a religious or charitable society.  Companions, if any, were very carefully chosen by the parents.  Well, war has changed all that—­it has even chosen our very bed-fellows for us.  And no questions to be asked, either.

It is often assumed by those who know no better that such a home as Sydney Baxter’s produces either prigs or profligates.  As a matter of fact, one of the reasons of this book is to prove that out of such a home may come, I believe often does come, the best type of Englishman—­a Christian sportsman, a man who fights all the better for his country because he has been taught from childhood to fear God and hate iniquity.

But it was well for Sydney Baxter that he prepared for the chances and quick changes of his military life by learning how to make the best of his hitherto hidden gift of companionship.

This is how it came about.  He writes: 

“One afternoon in early autumn a card was put into the hands of every young man in our office, inviting us to a tea and social evening at the Y.M.C.A.  Headquarters.  The chaps said to me, ‘Of course you are going, Baxter?’ and I answered, ‘Why not?’ They, however, seemed to be of the opinion that the tea was, more or less, a bait to a prayer-meeting or something of that kind.  However, several went, expecting, and preparing themselves for, the worst.  We were welcomed by a group of gentlemen who seemed to be possessors of smiles of permanency; they conducted us to a large room already well filled with others like ourselves, whom we incorrectly judged to be members, as they seemed to be quite at home.  In every corner of the room were lounge chairs and on the tables games of all description.  Here and there small groups were being entertained by the members, and, judging by the unrestrained merriment, they were proving themselves very capable hosts.

“We were told to make ourselves