Tom made his way to the Thorn and Thistle, but was informed that Polly
would not be home until eleven o'clock. He therefore wandered about
the town until that time, and again appeared at the public-house door.
But it was not until twelve o'clock that Polly made her appearance.
"Anything the matter, Tom?" she asked.
"Ay, I have joined the Army."
"Thou'st noan been such a fool?"
"I have noan been a fool," said Tom, "I couldn't help it."
Polly Powell looked at him rather angrily, then she said: "If you have
done it, what do you want to speak to me about it for?"
"I shall be off to-morrow," replied Tom. "The recruiting officer told
me I must report at the Town Hall to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."
"Where will you go?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Tom.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
"I thought," said Tom, "that is--I thought as I was going away
I'd--I'd---- Look here, Polly, you are going to keep true to me while
I'm away, aren't you?"
"I never thought much of soldiers," said Polly. "Besides----"
"Besides what?" asked Tom. "Look here, Polly, I gave up Alice Lister
for you, and if you had been at that meeting you would see as how I
couldn't do anything else."
"Do you think you might get a commission and be an officer?" asked the
girl.
"I never thought about that," said Tom.
Polly hesitated a second, then she said: "Of course I'll be true to
you, Tom. There, good night, I must go in."
The next morning as Tom was making his way towards the Town Hall he met
Alice Lister. At first he was going to pass her by without notice, but
when he saw the look on her face he stopped. She came towards him with
outstretched hand.
"Tom," she said, "I've heard about last night, and it was splendid of
you. I am glad you were the first. I am told that your going up in
that way led scores of others to go."
"Have you heard that?" said Tom. "I never thought of it."
"I am sure you will be a good soldier, Tom. We are all proud of you,
and--and we shall be thinking about you, and praying for you."
Tom laughed uneasily. "I thought you had forgotten all about me,
Alice," he said.
"Why should you think so?"
"I have heard there is a young parson going after you. Are you going
to make a match of it, Alice?" And again he laughed.
"Good-bye, Tom, I hope you will do well." And Alice left him with a
strange fluttering in his heart.
Tom joined the Loyal North Lancashires. I will not say which
battalion, as the mention of it might cause some of my readers to
identify the lad whose story I am telling. His unit was located at a
large Lancashire town some thirty miles from Brunford. Here he was
initiated into the secrets of a soldier's life. At first everything
was a drudgery to him; he could not see the meaning of what he was
doing, could not understand how "forming fours" and other parts of his
drill could help him to be a soldier. Still, being a fairly sharp,
common-sense lad, he picked up his work quickly, and in the course of a
few weeks was physically much better for his training. At the end of
three months he was nearly two inches taller, and more than three
inches bigger around the chest than at the time he joined. He began to
enjoy his work, too. The young subaltern whose duty it was to train
the company had more than once singled him out as a capable fellow, and
as the cold winter days passed away and spring began to advance Tom
could undergo a twenty- or thirty-mile march without weariness. He was
well fed, well housed, and well clothed, and while his pocket money was
not extravagant, he had enough for his needs.
Indeed in many respects it would have been better for Tom if he had had
less money. The influence of the Thorn and Thistle was still strong
upon him, and I have to relate with sadness that on more than one
occasion Tom barely escaped punishment for being drunk and disorderly.
Most of the lads with whom he was brought into contact were, on the
whole, steady and well-behaved. On the other hand, however, there were
a number of them who had a bad influence upon him. In fact, while he
narrowly escaped being brought before his superiors for his various
misdemeanours, Tom's character was steadily deteriorating. The first
flush of enthusiasm, and loyalty, and even something nobler than
loyalty, which had been aroused in him by the speaker who had caused
him to join the army, slowly faded away. The men with whom he
associated did not help him to be on the side of the angels, rather
they appealed to what was coarse and debased in his nature.
To tell the truth, there was very little in Tom's life which tended to
ennoble him. It is true there was a service for soldiers every Sunday
morning in one of the big buildings in the town, and while Tom, lover
of music as he had always been, was somewhat influenced by the singing
of the men, and while the hymns reminded him of his Sunday-school days,
they did not move him very deeply. He paid little or no attention to
the ministrations of the chaplain. Neither did he avail himself of the
many meetings which were held for soldiers by the various churches in
the town. Indeed, up to this point Tom was not the better, but the
worse, for joining the Army.
There was in Tom's company a young fellow much superior to the rank and
file of the soldiers. He was a young Cornish lad, the son of a
well-to-do father who had sent him to a good public school, and from
thence to Lancashire to learn the manufacturing business. This young
fellow, Robert Penrose by name, although belonging socially to a
different class from that in which Tom moved, took a liking to him. He
was amused at his good humour, and seemed to be grieved at seeing him
drifting with the dregs of the battalion.
"I say, Pollard," he said to him on one occasion, "do you know you are
making an ass of yourself? You have the makings of a man in you, and
yet you mix with that lot."
"Why shouldn't I?" said Tom.
"Because you have more brains than they have, are better educated, and
are capable of better things."
"Why shouldn't I have a lark while I can?" replied Tom. "I shall have
to go to the front in a month or two, so I will just make hay while the
sun shines."
"Make hay!" replied Penrose, "make a fool of yourself, you mean. I
hear that years ago you were on the way to becoming an educated chap,
and now everybody's looking upon you as one of the drinking fellows."
"It's all very well for you to talk," said Tom, "you're a swell."
"I am a private just as you are," replied Penrose.
"Ay, but you will be getting a commission soon, and there's no chance
of that for me. I don't belong to your sort. Besides, what can I do?
There's no places but the theatre, the cinema show, and the
public-house when the day's work is over."
"That's all nonsense," replied Penrose.
"Well, what is there?" asked Tom.
"There's the Y.M.C.A."
"Y.M.C.A.!" laughed Tom, "none o' that for me! I know some of the
fools who go to the Y.M.C.A. meetings."
"Why are they fools?"
"Because they go and hear a lot of pie-jaw; they are a lot of ninnies,
that's what they are."
"They don't get hauled over the coals for misbehaviour, anyhow."
"No, they haven't got pluck enough. I didn't come into the Army to
become religious; I joined to fight the blooming Germans, and what's
fighting got to do with religion?"
"Maybe it has a good deal if you feel you are fighting for a good
cause," replied Penrose; "besides, the Y.M.C.A. chaps are not ninnies,
as you call them. Some of them are the best fellows we have."
"No religious lolly-pops for me," said Tom, "I had enough of that when
I lived i' Brunford."
"Of course you can go your own way," said Penrose. "I suppose you will
spend your evening in the public-house, or at some cinema show, or
perhaps you will be larking around with some silly girls; but I am
going to the Y.M.C.A."
"Do you go there?" cried Tom in astonishment. For Penrose was looked
upon as anything but goody-goody, and he was generally admired. He was
the best boxer in the company, was smart in drill, could do long
marches with the best of them, and was always ready to do a kindly
action. Besides all that, his evident education and social superiority
made him a marked man. It was rumoured, too, that he had refused a
commission.
"Of course I go," replied Penrose.
"What, and listen to their pie-jaw?"
"There is precious little pie-jaw, as you call it," was Penrose's
response. "We have jolly good entertainments almost every night, and
some of the fellows who come to talk to us are not half bad, I can tell
you! Besides, I go there to rub up my conversational French."
"Conversational French!" said Tom, only dimly understanding what he
meant. "Dost 'a mean to say that they learn you French there?"
"There's a Frenchman who gives his services free," replied Penrose.
"It's jolly good of him too, for the poor wretch has hardly a sixpence
to his name; still he does it. In his way he's quite a French scholar,
and he has helped me no end."
"Ay, but you learnt French at school," said Tom; "he would have nowt to
do wi' a chap like me."
"Don't be an ass. Why, dozens of fellows go to him every night. A few
weeks ago they didn't know a word of French, and now they are picking
it up like mad. Besides all that, the Y.M.C.A. rooms are open every
night, they have all sorts of games there, lots of newspapers, and they
give you every facility for writing letters and that sort of thing."
"By gum!" said Tom, "I didn't know that."
"That's because you have been making an ass of yourself. While the
other fellows have been improving themselves you have been loafing
around public-houses. Good night," and Penrose left him alone.
Tom felt rather miserable; he was somewhat angered too. He didn't like
the way Penrose had spoken to him. In the old days he had been proud
of his respectability, and before he had made Polly Powell's
acquaintance, and when Alice Lister had shown a preference for him, Tom
was very ambitious. Now he knew he had not only sunk in the social
scale, but he had less self-respect than formerly. "After all," he
argued to himself presently, "I didn't join the Army to go to Sunday
School, I joined to lick the blooming Germans."
Still he could not help recalling the feelings which possessed him on
the night he came out of the great hall at the Mechanics' Institute.
He had felt stirred then; felt indeed as though he had heard the call
of some higher power. Hitherto he had looked upon wearing the King's
uniform as something ignoble; then it had appeared to him almost as a
religious act. The speaker had called upon him to fight against
brutality, butchery, devilry, and his heart had burned at the thought
of it. Something which he felt was holy made him leap to his feet and
give his name, yet now he found his chief delights in coarse
associations and debasing habits.
He was still fond of Polly Powell. The girl's coarse beauty made a
strong appeal to him, but he remembered Alice Lister; remembered the
things which she had said to him, and he could not help sighing.
"Eh, Tom, is that you?"
Tom turned and saw a tall raw-boned fellow in kilts.
"Ay, Alec; wher't' baan?"
"There's a wee lassie I promised to meet to-nicht," replied the other.
Alec McPhail belonged to the Black Watch, a battalion of which was
stationed in the town, and Tom and Alec had become friends.
"What's thy lass's name?" asked Tom.
"I dinna ken reightly, except that they ca' her Alice. Come wi' me,
Tom; mebbe she has a friend."
"Nay," replied Tom, "I doan't feel like skylarking with the lasses
to-night."
"Weel, I'm not ower particular mysel', but I have not much siller.
Three bawbees will have to last me till Saturday, otherwise I'd be
asking ye to come and have a drop of whisky wi' me."
"I am stony-broke too," said Tom. "I expect I have been a fool."
"Nay, man, nae man's a fool who spends his siller on good whisky."
By this time they were walking together towards the outskirts of the
town.
"What is this lass o' yourn?" asked Tom after a silence.
"I think she's a wee bit servant lassie," replied the Scotchman; "she's
a bonny wee thing too, and fairly enamoured wi' a kilt."
Tom still walked on aimlessly; the thought of going to meet a girl who
might never come did not have much attraction for him; still he didn't
know where to go.
"I don't think I'll come any further," he said presently.
"Nay, what makes ye alter your mind, Tom?"
"I think I'll go back to the Black Cow," replied Tom, "'appen there's
some chaps there who'll stand a treat. After all, Penrose wur right
when he called me an ass."
"Penrose is what you call a gentleman ranker, I'm thinking."
"Summat o' that sort," replied Tom,
"What did he call you an ass for?"
"Well, you see I've been a bit of a fool; I've spent all my brass, and
I've took up wi' a lot o' lads as is no use to me. Penrose is gone to
the Y.M.C.A. You wouldn't think it perhaps, McPhail, but I wur a bit in
the religious line myself once. I wur educating myself too, and I had
as nice a lass as there was i' Brunford, but I took up wi' the daughter
of a man as kept a public-house, and--well, there you are."
"And you have chucked releegion?" asked McPhail.
"Ay, there's nowt in it, and it keeps a chap from having a good
time--but I doan't know," and Tom sighed.
"I am a wee bit of a philosopher mysel'," replied McPhail, "and I have
reasoned it all out very carefully. My mither, now, is what you might
call a godly woman; my father was an elder in the old U. P. Kirk, and I
was brought up in a godly fashion. But, as I said, I reasoned it out.
I read Colonel Ingersoll's Lectures, and he proved to me that Moses
made a lot of mistakes. So, weel, presently I got fond of whisky, and
I came to the conclusion that releegion was not logical."
"I reckon as you're none too logical," replied Tom.
"Ay, man, but I was well groonded in the fundamentals! I could say the
Shorter Catechism when I was a wee kiddie of seven years old! How am I
no logical?"
"After all," replied Tom, "it's noan logical to give up religion
because of Colonel Ingersoll's Lectures. The religion my Alice had
went deeper nor that. Ay, but there, I am a fool to be talking about
it. Good night, McPhail, I will go back now." And Tom went back
towards the town alone.
The following Saturday night Tom was again drunk and disorderly. This
time he did not escape punishment. Tom never felt so degraded in his
life as when he was undergoing that punishment. He had joined the Army
under the influence of a noble impulse. He had felt that he was doing
a noble thing. Not that he was proud of it, because in reality he
could do nothing else; when he came to think of it afterwards he knew
that he was doing nothing but his duty. All the same he was elated by
his action. It had made him hold his head higher, and made his heart
beat fast; now, after a little more than three months' training, he had
actually been called before his officers for being a disgrace to his
company. The colonel, who was a stern soldier, was also a kindly
gentleman. He recognised at a glance that Tom was not a gutter lad;
saw, too, that he had the making of a man in him. That was the reason
perhaps why he used stronger language than usual, and for meting out a
heavier punishment.
"What excuse have you for yourself?" asked the colonel. "You have
evidently had some education and were meant for better things. Why did
you make a beast of yourself?" His words cut Tom like a knife. "Make
a beast of myself," he thought, "has Tom Pollard come to that?"
"Where is there to go, sir, when one's day's work is over?" he asked
almost sulkily.
"Go?" replied the colonel, a little nonplussed, "go?" And then
remembering a visitor who came to him the previous day, he said:
"There's the Y.M.C.A. hall; they teach you something useful there."
After his punishment was over Tom could not help seeing that the better
class of fellows somewhat shunned him. He could not say he was
boycotted, but they showed no inclination to be in his company. This
touched his pride. "I am as good as they are," he said to himself,
"and a bit better nor some on 'em." He was delighted, however, to
notice that Penrose acted differently from the rest, although he was by
no means flattering.
"I told you you were an ass," he said. "If you go on in this way,
you'll end by being kicked out of the Army."
Again Tom was wounded deeply. "Kicked out of the Army!" He had never
dreamed of that. What! he, Tom Pollard, who had won prizes at the
Mechanics' Institute, and who had ambition of one day becoming a
manufacturer on his own account, kicked out of the Army!
"Come now, Tom," said Penrose, who almost repented of having spoken so
sharply, "it is not too late to turn over a new leaf, and you have the
makings of a fine fellow in you."
"I'd rather be kicked out of the Army as a straight chap than to be a
blooming white-livered hypocrite."
"And do you think I'm a white-livered hypocrite?"
"A sort of plaster saint, anyhow," retorted Tom.
"Anything but that, Tom," replied Penrose; "all the same I've taken a
liking to you."
"You have a nice way of showing it," replied Tom.
His anger was all gone now, for he instinctively felt that Penrose
meant to be friendly.
"Come with me to the Y.M.C.A. hall to-night," urged Penrose.
"Ay, and be preached to," said Tom, yielding rapidly to the other.
"I promise you there will be no preaching," said Penrose, with a laugh,
"unless you like to wait for it. Come now."
"All right, then," said Tom still sulkily, but glad that he had
yielded. A few minutes later they entered a large hall where perhaps
six or seven hundred soldiers had gathered.
There are few counties in England where music is more cultivated than
in Lancashire, and that night Tom listened almost spellbound. Songs
that he knew and loved were sung; songs which he had heard Alice Lister
sing. Recitations were given in broad Lancashire dialect which gave
him keen enjoyment. More than all this there was a feeling of
good-fellowship; the Y.M.C.A. workers were evidently on the friendliest
of terms with the men, while there was no suggestion of goody-goodyism.
"This is a special occasion, I suppose," said Tom to Penrose.
"Oh no, they have entertainments like this almost every night. All the
musical people in the district give their services."
"What for?" asked Tom.
"Just to give us soldiers a good time; but we must be going now."
"Why?" asked Tom, "it's not late."
"But there's a fellow just going to speak, and as you object to being
preached to we had better go."
Tom rose almost reluctantly. He was not sure that he didn't want to
hear what the man had to say.
"Besides," went on Penrose, "I haven't shown you over the place yet. I
want to take you into the rooms which are provided for writing letters,
and playing games; there are the French classes too, and I should like
you to see what they are like."
That night at eleven o'clock, as Tom went back to the house where he
had been billeted, he felt that he had indeed made a fool of himself.
The Y.M.C.A. rooms had the feeling of home; none of the people there
wanted his money, and he was the better, not the worse, for going.
"Of course," said Tom to himself as he went to bed, "religious
lolly-pops are not fit for a grown-up man, but it wur a grand evening;
I am sure I could pick up that French, too. Let's see, how did it go?
"_Je suis_ I am.
_Vous êtes_ you are.
_Nous sommes_ we are.
_Ils sont_ they are.
"Why, it's easy enough," thought Tom, "I could pick it up, and then
when I go over to France I shall be able to speak their lingo."
"Where have you been lately, Tom?" asked Alec McPhail when he met him
some time later. "I have been to all the public-houses where we used
to meet and have not set my eyes on you."
"Nay," replied Tom, "I have been to the Y.M.C.A."
"Nay, Tom, a man like you, with your power of reasoning an' a', are
surely not turning releegious?"
"Nay, I am noan turning religious," replied Tom, "but I tell you, man,
the entertainments are fair grand; champion, in fact! I am learning
French too."
"I suppose the entertainments are sandwiched between the dry bread of
releegion?" replied the Scotchman.
"Nay, I have nowt to do wi' religion," replied Tom. "I have just
listened to the singing and the recitations, and then when the chap has
got up to talk I've gone into the writing-room or to the French class."
"Will you tell me about it?" asked the Scotchman.
Tom gave him a full description.
"You see," he said, "it's not like Sunday School, or anything of that
sort. There's lots of folks what can sing, and play the piano very
well, and can recite champion. And they give us a good concert every
night. Then there's a room where we can go in and read papers, write
letters, or play draughts or bagatelle and all that sort of thing.
Then there's a good library where you can get any book for the asking.
Ay, those religious folks have been kind; they have sent hundreds of
books for us chaps to read, good books and all. Then there's a
class-room where you can learn French."
"And will there be a bar where you can get some whisky?" asked the
Scotchman.
"Nay," replied Tom, "there's no whisky or owt o' that sort, but there's
a refreshment bar where you can get tea and coffee, and tarts, and
sandwiches."
"For nothing?" asked the Scotchman eagerly.
"Nay, not for nothing, but cheaper than you can buy it at any shop.
From what I can hear they sell it at just cost price."
"And," said the Scotchman, "do you mean, Tom, that you will give up the
evenings we used to have, for that sort of thing?"
"I don't say I've turned teetotaler," replied Tom, "although I have
took nothing sin'--sin' I were--disgraced, and I doan't mean to for a
bit. You see, the chaps at the Y.M.C.A. doan't tell you not to go to
the public-houses and then provide nothing better for you. Anyhow,
I've been to the Y.M.C.A. every night sin' I had my punishment, and
what's more, I'm going again."
A week later there was great excitement amongst the soldiers. They had
now been nearly four months in this Lancashire town, and orders came
for the Loyal North Lancashires and the Black Watch to move south.
They heard that they were going to Surrey, and were to be situated at a
camp in the most beautiful part of that county. Tom was delighted, for
although he had made many friends at the Y.M.C.A and grown to know many
people in this Lancashire town, the thought of a change appealed to him
strongly. He was young, and longed for new associations and new
surroundings. Besides, it meant a step nearer towards his desires. He
was told that his battalion was to be moved to Surrey preparatory to
orders for the Front. Possibly they might be moved to Salisbury Plain
or Shoreham afterwards, but it was quite on the cards that they would
go straight from the Surrey camp to France or Flanders.
As soon as Tom heard this, he applied for leave, and, the young
lieutenant having reported that Tom had behaved very well since his
punishment, and had apparently turned over a new leaf, it was granted.
He did not spend much of his time with his father and mother, but as
soon as possible made his way to the Thorn and Thistle. He had saved
practically all his last four weeks' regimental pay, a great part of
which he spent on a present for Polly Powell. On the whole he was
satisfied with Polly's reception, although he felt that she was not
quite so affectionate towards him as she had been during the days when
she was trying to win him away from Alice Lister. It was during his
stay in Brunford, too, that Tom gave way to the temptation of drink.
"Nay, Tom," said Polly when he said he would only take a bottle of
ginger ale, "I never heard of a soldier who was worth his salt but
would not take his beer like a man." And Tom, who could not bear to be
laughed at, yielded to Polly's persuasions.
"Ay, she's a grand lass," he said to himself, "and a rare beauty too;
she's got eyes like black diamonds, and a face like a June rose." All
the same he remembered some of the ladies who had come to the Y.M.C.A.
to sing to the soldiers, and he had a feeling, which he could not put
into words, that Polly was a little bit loud. Her dresses were always
highly coloured, while her hats were bedecked with big feathers. Of
course these things suited her to perfection, and although he did not
raise the slightest objection to them there were doubts at the back of
his mind. Neither did he altogether like the way in which she bandied
jokes, which were not always of the best taste, with the young fellows
who came to the Thorn and Thistle. Altogether it was not an unmixed
sorrow to him when his leave was up and he returned to his regiment.
He did not see Alice Lister during his visit, and if the truth must be
told he was glad of it. Polly Powell's spell was strong upon him, and
he said repeatedly that Alice Lister was not his sort.
A week after this Tom's battalion was ordered south, and amidst much
excitement the men boarded the train which took them there. He had
hoped they would stay in London for at least one night, but only two
hours were allowed between the time they reached Euston from the time
the train was due to leave Waterloo. Discipline was somewhat relaxed
during the journey, and when at length Tom entered the train at
Waterloo he noticed that many of the men were the worse for drink.
"What blithering fools they are!" said Penrose to him, as seated in
their carriage they saw many of their companions staggering along the
platform. Tom was silent at this, nevertheless he thought a great deal.
It was now the beginning of May, and the Surrey meadows were bedecked
with glory. Tom, who had never been out of Lancashire before, could
not help being impressed with the beauty he saw everywhere. It was
altogether different from the hard bare hills which he had been
accustomed to in the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. The air
was sweet and pure too. Here all nature seemed generous with her
gifts; great trees abounded, flowers grew everywhere, while fields were
covered with such a glory of green as he had never seen before. By and
by the train stopped at a little station, and then commenced the march
to the camp for which they were bound. Penrose and Tom walked side by
side.
"This is not new to you, I suppose?" Tom queried.
"No," said Penrose, "I know almost every inch round here."
"I saw you looking out of the train at a place we passed what they call
Godalming; you were looking at a big building on the top of a hill
there. What was it?"
"It was my old school," said Penrose, "Charterhouse; the best school in
the world."
"Ay, did you go there?" asked Tom. "Why, it was fair grand. How long
were you there?"
"Five years," said Penrose.
"And to think of your becoming a Tommy like me!" Tom almost gasped.
"Well, what of that?"
"You might have been an officer if you had liked, I suppose?"
Penrose nodded.
"It wur just grand of you."
"Nothing grand at all," said Penrose. "A chap who doesn't do his bit
at a time like this is just a skunk, that's all; and I made up my mind
that I would learn what a private soldier's life was like before I took
a commission."
"Well, you know now," said Tom, "and you will be an officer soon, I
expect."
"My uniform's ordered," said Penrose.
Tom was silent for some time.
"I suppose you won't be friends with me any more, and I shall have to
salute you," he remarked presently.
"Discipline is discipline," replied Penrose. "As to friendship, I am
not given to change."
The battalion, eleven hundred strong, climbed a steep hill, under great
overshadowing trees. Birds were singing gaily; May blossom was
blooming everywhere; the green of the trees was wonderful to behold.
Presently they came to a great clearing in a pine forest. The life of
the country seemed suddenly to end, and they arrived at a newly
improvised town. There were simply miles of wooden huts, while the
sound of men's voices, the neighing of horses, and the rolling of
wheels were heard on every hand. These huts, from what Tom could see,
were nearly all of them about two hundred feet long, while around them
were great open spaces where all vegetation had been worn away by the
tramp of thousands of feet. The men, who had been singing all the way
during their march, became silent; the scene was so utterly different
from what they had left. That morning they had left a grim, grey,
smoky manufacturing town; in the evening they had entered a clearing
surrounded by sylvan beauty.
"I feel as though I could stay here for ever," said Tom. "But look at
yon'," and he pointed to a long, low hut, at the door of which the
letters "Y.M.C.A." were painted. "Why, they're here too!"
"Yes," said Penrose, "there's not a camp in the country where you don't
find the Y.M.C.A. huts; for that matter they are on the Continent too."
"But yon' place must have cost a lot of money," said Tom, "you can't
build shanties like that without a lot of brass. Where did they get
the brass from?"
"I expect the people who believe in religious lolly-pops gave it to
them," replied Penrose.
It took Tom two or three days before he became accustomed to his new
surroundings. He found that in this camp nearly thirty thousand men
had gathered; men who had come from every corner of the
country--Cameronians, Durhams, Devons, Welsh, Duke of Cornwalls, they
were all here. Tom had rather expected that the advent of a new
battalion would have caused some excitement, but scarcely any notice
seemed to be taken; their coming was a matter of course. Three days
before a battalion had left for the Front, and they had come to take
their place, that was all. Instead of being billeted at various
houses, as they had been in Lancashire, they had now to sleep sixty in
a hut. Tom laughed as he saw the sleeping arrangements. Beds were
placed close together all around the building; these beds were of the
most primitive nature, and consisted of a sack of straw, a couple of
rugs, and what might be called a pillow. These sacks of straw were
raised some three or four inches from the floor by means of boarding,
and had only the suggestion of a spring. No privacy was possible, but
everything was clean and well-kept. In a few days Tom got to like it.
The weather was beautiful, the country was lovely, and the air was
pure. Tom had a good appetite in Lancashire, now he felt ravenous.
The work was hard, harder than he had had in Lancashire, but he enjoyed
it; on the whole, too, he could not help noticing that many of the men
seemed of a better type than those which made up his own battalion With
the exception of Penrose, nearly all his company were drafted from coal
pits and cotton mills. Here were numbers of university men,
public-school men, and the like. Truly the Army was a great democracy.
One thing made Tom feel very sad, and that was the loss of Penrose. He
had been in Surrey only a few days when he was gazetted and was removed
to another camp about four miles away. Still he made new friends and
was on the whole happy. He found, too, that even the men, whose
conduct was anything but praiseworthy in Lancashire, were sober here.
Only a dozen public-houses existed, within the radius of almost as many
miles; and as the rules of the canteen were very strict, there were few
temptations to drink. Discipline was far easier, and on the whole the
men were better looked after.
At the end of the second day in this Surrey camp, he was going with a
message to the officers' quarters, when he stopped suddenly.
"Ay, can that be you?" he said aloud.
"What do you mean, my man?" And then Tom saw that the person whom he
recognised wore a lieutenant's uniform.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Tom, saluting, "but--but--yes, sir, it
is you."
"Oh, is that you, Pollard? I see you have enlisted, then; that's all
right. You'll know me another time, won't you?"
"Yes, Mr. Waterman. That is, yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir."
"Yes, I'm all right. Good night," and the officer passed on.
"By George!" said Tom to himself, "I didn't expect to meet Waterman
here, but there's nothing to wonder about, after all."