had never been caught napping.

Passes were generally inspected at the station preceding the one to
which we were bound. My travelling companions were well aware of this,
and made preparations to combat the difficulty in front; two crawled
under the seats, and two more went up on the racks, where they lay
quiet as mice, stretched out at full length and covered over with
several khaki overcoats. One man, a brisk Cockney, who would not deign
to roost or crawl, took up his position as far away as possible from
the platform window.

"Grease the paper along as quick as you know 'ow and keep the picket
jorin' till I'm safe," he remarked as the train stopped and a figure
in khaki fumbled with the door handle.

"Would you mind me lookin' at passes, mateys?" demanded the picket,
entering the compartment. The man by the door produced his pass, the
one he had written and signed himself; and when it passed inspection
he slyly slipped it behind the back of the man next him, and in the
space of three seconds the brisk Cockney had the forged permit of
leave to show to the inspector. The men under the seat and on the
racks were not detected.

Every station in our town and its vicinity has a cordon of pickets,
the Sunday farewell kisses of sweethearts are never witnessed by the
platform porter, as the lovers in khaki are never allowed to see
their loves off by train, and week-end adieux always take place at
the station entrance. Some time ago the pickets allowed the men to
see their sweethearts off, but as many youths abused the privilege and
took train to London when they got on the platform, these kind actions