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