Peter lay on a home-made bed between the blankets and contemplated the ceiling while he smoked his first cigarette. He had been a fortnight at Rouen, and he was beginning to feel an old soldier that is to say, he was learning not to worry too much about outside things, and not to show he worried particularly about the interior. He was learning to stand around and smoke endless cigarettes; to stroll in to breakfast and out again, look over a paper, sniff the air, write a letter, read another paper, wander round the camp, talk a lot of rubbish and listen to more, and so do a morning’s work. Occasionally he took a service, but his real job was, as mess secretary, to despatch the man to town for the shopping and afterwards go and settle the bills. Just at present he was wondering sleepily whether to continue ordering fish from the big merchants, Biais Frères et Cie, or to go down to the market and choose it for himself. It was a very knotty problem, because solving it in the latter way meant getting up at once. And his batman had not yet brought his tea.

There came a knock at the door, and the tea came in. With it was a folded note. “Came last night, sir, but you was out,” said the man. He collected his master’s tunic and boots, and departed.

Peter opened the note and swore definitely and unclerically when he had read it. It was from some unknown person, who signed himself as Acting Assistant Chaplain-General, to the effect that he was to be moved to another base, and that as the A.C.G. was temporarily on leave, he had better apply to the Colonel of his own group for the necessary movement order. On the whole this was unintelligible to Peter, but he was already learning that there was no need to worry about that, for somebody would be able to read the riddle. What annoyed him was the fact that he had got to move just as he was settling down. It was certainly a matter for another cigarette, and as he lit it he perceived one gleam of sunshine: he need worry no more about the fish.

Peter waited till Harold had finished his breakfast before he imparted the news to the world a couple of hours or so later. “I say, skipper,” he said, “I’ve got to quit.”

“What, padre? Oh, hang it all, no, man! You’ve only just taken on the mess secretary’s job, and you aren’t doing it any too badly either. You can’t go, old dear.”

“I must. Some blighter’s written from the A.C.G.’s office, and I’ve got to get a movement order from the Colonel of the group, whatever that means. But I suppose you can put me straight about that, anyway.”

“Sure thing. Come up to the orderly-room ’bout eleven, and you can fill up the chit and I’ll fire it in for you. It’s only a matter of form. It goes through to Colonel Lear at La Croisset. Where to?”

Peter told him moodily.

“Eh?” said Harold. “Well, you can cheer up about that. Havre’s not at all a bad place. There are some decent shows about there and some very decent people. What you got to do?”

“I don’t know; I suppose I shall find out when I get there. But I don’t care what it’s like. It’s vile having to leave just now, when I’m getting straight. And what’ll you do for a four at bridge?”

Harold got up and fumbled in his pockets. As usual, there was nothing there. “Why that damned batman of mine won’t put my case in my pocket I can’t think,” he said. “I’ll have to fire the blighter, though he is T.T. and used to be a P. and O. steward. Give me a fag, somebody. Thanks. Well, padre, it’s no use grousing. It’s a beastly old war, and you’re in the blinkin’ British Army, me lad. Drop in at eleven, then. Cheerio till then.”

At eleven Peter found Harold signing papers. He glanced up. “Oh, sergeant,” he said, “give Captain Graham a Movement Order Application Form, will you? Sit down, padre; there’s a pen there.”

Peter wrestled with the form, which looked quite pretty when it was done. Harold endorsed it. “Fire this through to the orderly-room, 10th Group, sergeant,” he said, and rose wearily. “Come along, padre,” he said: “I’ve got to go round the camp, and you can come too, if you’ve nothing better to do.”

“When’ll I have to go, do you think?” asked Peter as they went out.

“Oh, I don’t know. In a day or two. You’ll have to hang about, for the order may come any time, and I don’t know how or when they’ll send you.”

Peter did hang about, for ten days, with his kit packed. His recently acquired calm forsook him about the sixth day, and on the tenth he was entirely mutinous. At lunch he voiced his grievances to the general mess.

“Look here, you men,” he said, “I’m fed up to the back teeth. I’ve hung round this blessed camp for more than a week waiting for that infernal movement order, and I’m hanged if I’m going to stay in any more. It’s a topping afternoon. Who’ll come down the river to La Bouille, or whatever it is called?”

Harold volunteered. “That’s a good line, padre. I want to go there myself. Are the boats running now?”

“Saw ’em yesterday,” volunteered somebody, and it was settled.

The two of them spent a decent afternoon on the river, and at Harold’s insistence went on back right up to town. They dined and went to a cinema, and got back to camp about midnight. Graham struck a match and looked at the board in the anteroom. “May as well see if there is anything for me,” he said. There was, of course. He tore the envelope open. “Good Lord, skipper!” he said. “Here’s my blessed movement order, to report at the Gare du Vert at eight p.m. this very day. I’m only four hours too late. What the dickens shall I do?”

Harold whistled. “Show it me,” he said. “’The following personnel to report at Gare du Vert ... at 8 p.th inst’” he read. “You’re for it, old bird,” he continued cheerfully. “But what rot! Look here, it was handed in to my orderly-room at six-thirty. You’d have hardly had time to get there at any rate.”

Graham looked over his shoulder. “That’s so,” he said. “But what’ll I do now?”

“Haven’t a notion,” said the other, “except that they’ll let you know quick enough. Don’t worry that’s the main thing. If they choke you off, tell ’em it came too late to get to the station.”

Peter meditated this in silence, and in some dismay. He saw visions of courts-martial, furious strafing, and unholy terrors. He was to be forgiven, for he was new to comic opera; and besides, when a page of Punch falls to one in real life, one hardly realises it till too late. But it was plain that nothing could be done that night, and he went to bed with what consolation he could derive from the cheerful Harold.

Next morning his breakfast was hardly over when an orderly came in. Harold had been earlier than usual, and had finished and gone out. “Captain Graham, sir?” queried the man. “Captain Harold’s compliments, and a telephone message has just come in that you are to report to H.th Group as quickly as possible.”

Peter brushed himself up, and outwardly cheerful but inwardly quaking, set off. Half an hour’s walk brought him to the place, a little office near a wharf is a tangle of trolley lines. He knocked, went in, came to attention, and saluted.

Colonel Lear was a short, red-faced, boorish fellow, and his Adjutant sat beside him at the desk, for the Colonel was not particularly well up in his job. The Adjutant was tall, slightly bald, and fat-faced, and he leaned back throughout the interview with an air of sneering boredom, only vouchsafing laconic replies to his superior’s occasional questions. Peter didn’t know which he hated the more; but he concluded that whereas he would like to cut the Colonel in Regent Street, he would enjoy shooting the Adjutant.

“Ah!” said the Colonel. “Are you Captain Graham? Well, sir, what’s the meaning of this? You applied for a movement order, and one was sent you, and you did not report at the station. You damned padres think you can do any bally thing you choose! Out here for a picnic, I suppose. What is the meaning of it?”

“Well, sir,” said Peter, “I waited ten days for the order and it did not come. At last I went out for the afternoon, and got back too late to execute it. I’m very sorry, but can’t I go to-day instead?”

“Good God, sir! do you think the whole British Army is arranged for your benefit? Do you think nobody has anything else to do except to arrange things to suit your convenience? We haven’t got troopers with Pullman cars every day for the advantage of you chaplains, though I suppose you think we ought to have. Supposing you did have to wait, what about it? What else have you to do? You’d have waited fast enough if it was an order to go on leave; that’s about all you parsons think about. I don’t know what you can do. What had he better do, Mallony?”

The Adjutant leaned forward leisurely, surveying Peter coolly.

“Probably he’d better report to the R.T.O., sir,” he said.

“Oh, very well. It won’t be any good, though. Go up to the R.T.O. and ask him what you can do. Here’s the order.” (He threw it across the table, and Peter picked it up, noting miserably the blue legend, “Failed to Report R.T.O., Gare du Vert.”) “But don’t apply to this office again. Haven’t you got a blessed department to do your own damned dirty work?”

“The A.C.G.’s away, sir,” said Peter.

“On leave, I suppose. Wish to God I were a padre, eh, Mallony? Always on leave or in Paris, and doin’ nothing in between.... Got those returns, sergeant?... What in hell are you waiting for, padre?”

For the first time in his life Peter had an idea of what seeing red really means. But he mastered it by an effort, saluted without a word, and passed out.

In a confused whirl he set off for the R.T.O., and with a sinking heart reached the station, crowded with French peasantry, who had apparently come for the day to wait for the train. Big notices made it impossible to miss the Railway Transport Officer. He passed down a passage and into an office. He loathe and hated the whole wide world as he went in.

A young man, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine, glanced up at him. Peter observed in time that he had two stars only on his shoulder-strap. Before he could speak, the other said cheerily: “Well, padre, and what can I do for you?”

Peter deprecatingly told him. He had waited ten days, etc., and had at last gone out, and the movement order had come with...

The other cut him short: “Oh, you’re the chap who failed to report, are you? Blighted rotters they are at these Group H.Q.’s. Chuck us over the chit.”

Peter brightened up and obeyed. The other read it. “I know,” ventured Peter, “but I got the dickens of a strafe from the Colonel. He said he had no idea when I could get away, and had better see you. What can I do?”

“Silly old ass! You’d better go to-night. There are plenty of trains, and you’re all alone, aren’t you? I might just alter the date, but I suppose now you had better go to his nibs the Deputy Assistant Officer controlling Transport. He’s in the Rue de la République, N; you can find it easily enough. Tell him I sent you. He’ll probably make you out a new order.”

Peter felt enormously relieved. He relaxed, smiled, and got out a cigarette, offering the other one. “Beastly lot of fuss they make over nothing, these chaps,” he said.

“I know,” said the R.T.O.; “but they’re paid for it, my boy, and probably your old dear had been strafed himself this morning. Well, cheerio; see you again to-night. Come in time, and I’ll get you a decent place.”

The great man’s office was up two flights of wooden stairs in what looked like a deserted house. But Peter mounted them with an easy mind. He had forgiven Lear, and the world smiled. He still didn’t realise he was acting in Punch.

Outside a suitably labelled door he stood a moment, listening to a well-bred voice drawling out sarcastic orders to some unfortunate. Then, with a smile he entered. A Major looked up at him, and heard his story without a word. Peter got less buoyant as he proceeded, and towards the end he was rather lame. A silence followed. The great man scrutinised the order. “Where were you?” he demanded at last, abruptly.

It was an awkward question. Peter hedged. “The O.C. of my camp asked me to go out with him,” he said at last, feebly.

The other picked up a blue pencil and scrawled further on the order. “We’ve had too much of this lately,” he said icily. “Officers appear to think they can travel when and how they please. You will report to the D.A.Q.M.G. at Headquarters, 3rd Echelon.” He handed the folded order back, and the miserable Peter had a notion that he meant to add: “And God have mercy on your soul.”

He ventured a futile remonstrance. “The R.T.O. said you could perhaps alter the date.”

The Major leaned back and regarded him in silence as a remarkable phenomenon such as had not previously come his way. Then he sighed, and picked up a pen. “Good-morning,” he said.

Peter, in the street, contemplated many things, including suicide. If Colonel Chichester had been in Rouen he would have gone there; as it was, he did not dare to face that unknown any more than this other. In the end he set out slowly for H.Q., was saluted by the sentry under the flag, climbed up to a corridor with many strangely labelled doors, and finally entered the right one, to find himself in a big room in which half a dozen men in uniform were engaged at as many desks with orderlies moving between them. A kind of counter barred his farther passage. He stood at it forlornly for a few minutes.

At last an orderly came to him, and he shortly explained his presence and handed in the much-blued order. The man listened in silence, asked him to wait a moment, and departed. Peter leaned on the counter and tried to look indifferent. With a detached air he studied the Kirschner girls on the walls. These added a certain air to the otherwise forlorn place, but when, a little later, W.A.A.C.’s were installed, a paternal Government ordered their removal. But that then mattered no longer to Peter.

At the last the orderly came back. “Will you please follow me, sir?” he said.

Peter was led round the barrier like a sheep to execution, and in at a small door. He espied a General Officer at a desk by the window, telephone receiver in one hand, the fateful order in the other. He saluted. The other nodded. Peter waited.

“Ah, yes! D.A.Q.M.G. speaking. That 10th Group Headquarters? Oh yes; good-morning, Mallony. About Captain Graham’s movement order. When was this order applied for at your end?... What? Eighteenth? Humph! What time did your office receive it?... Eh? Ten a.m.? Then, sir, I should like to know what it was doing in your office till six p.m. This officer did not receive it till six-thirty. What? He was out? Yes, very likely, but it reached his mess at six-thirty: it is so endorsed.... Colonel Lear has had the matter under consideration? Good. Kindly ask Colonel Lear to come to the telephone.”

He leaned back, and glanced up at Graham, taking him in with a grave smile. “I understand you waited ten days for this, Captain Graham,” he said. “It’s disgraceful that it should happen. I am glad to have had an instance brought before me, as we have had too many cases of this sort of thing lately....” He broke off. “Yes? Colonel Lear? Ah, good-morning, Colonel Lear. This case of the movement order of Captain Graham has just been brought to me. This officer was kept waiting ten days for his order, and then given an impossibly short time to report. Well, it won’t do, Colonel. There must be something very wrong in your orderly-room; kindly see to it. Chaplains have other things to do than sit around in camps waiting the convenience of Group Headquarters. The application for this order reached us on the 27th, and was sent off early next morning, in ample time for the officer to travel. I am very displeased about it. You will kindly apply at once for a fresh order, and see that it is in Captain Graham’s hands at least six hours before he must report. That is all. Good-morning.”

Peter could hardly believe his ears, but he could barely keep a straight face either. The D.A.Q.M.G. hung up the receiver and repeated the latter part of the message. Peter thanked him and departed, walking on air. A day later an orderly from the group informed him at 11 a.m. that the order had been applied for and might be expected that day, and at 1 o’clock he received it. Such is the humour of the high gods who control the British Army. But he never saw Colonel Lear again, and was thankful.

Peter reached his new base, then, early in March in a drizzle of rain. He was told his camp and set off to find it, and for an hour walked through endless docks, over innumerable bridges, several of which, being open to admit and let out ships, caused him pretty considerable delay. It was a strange, new experience. The docks presented types of nearly every conceivable nationality and of every sort of shipping. French marines and seamen were, of course everywhere, but so were Chinese, South African natives, Egyptians, Senegalese, types of all European nationalities, a few of the first clean, efficient-looking Americans in tight-fitting uniforms, and individual officers of a score of regiments.

The old town ended in a row of high, disreputable-looking houses that were, however, picturesque enough, and across the pave in front of them commenced the docks. One walked in and out of harbours and waterways, the main stretch of harbour opening up more and more on the right hand, and finally showing two great encircling arms that nearly met, and the grey Channel beyond. Tossing at anchor outside were more than a dozen ships, waiting for dark to attempt the crossing. As he went, a seaplane came humming in from the mists, circled the old town, and took the harbour water in a slither of foam. He had to wait while a big Argentine ship ploughed slowly in up a narrow channel, and then, in the late afternoon, crossed a narrow swing foot-bridge, and found himself on the main outer sea-wall.

Following directions, he turned to the right and walked as if going out to the harbour mouth a mile or so ahead. It seemed impossible that his camp should be here, for on the one hand he was close to the harbour, and on the other, over a high wall and some buildings, was plainly to be espied the sea. A few hundred yards on, however, a crowd of Tommies were lined up and passing embarkation officers for a big trooper, and Peter concluded that this was the leave boat by which he was to mark his camp across the road and more or less beyond it.

He crossed a railway-line, went in at a gate, and was there.

The officers’ quarters had a certain fascination. You stepped out of the anteroom and found yourself on a raised concrete platform at the back of which washed the sea. Very extensive harbour works, half completed, ran farther out in a great semicircle across a wide space of leaden water, over which gulls were circling and crying; but the thin black line of this wall hardly interrupted one’s sense of looking straight out to sea, and its wide mouth away on the right let in the real invigorating, sea-smelling wind. The camp itself was a mere strip between the railway-line and the water, a camp of R.E.’s to which he was attached. He was also to work a hospital which was said to be close by.

It was pointed out to him later. The railway ran out all but to the harbour mouth, and there ended in a great covered, wide station. Above it, large and airy, with extensive verandahs parallel to the harbour, was the old Customs, and it was this that had been transformed into a hospital. It was an admirable place. The Red Cross trains ran in below, and the men could be quickly swung up into the cool, clean wards above. These, all on one level, had great glass doors giving access to the verandahs, and from the verandahs broad gangways could be placed, running men, at high tide, on to the hospital ship alongside. The nurses’ quarters were beyond, and their sitting-room was perched up, as it were, sea on one side and harbour on the other.

At present, of course, Peter did not know all this. He was merely conducted by an orderly in the dusk to the anteroom of the mess, and welcomed by the orderly-officer, who led him into a comfortable room already lit, in a corner of which, near a stove, four officers sat at cards.

“Hearts three,” said one as Peter came in.

“Pass me,” said another, and it struck Peter that he knew the tone.

The four were fairly absorbed in their game, but the orderly officer led Peter towards the table. At that they looked up, and next minute one had jumped up and was greeting him.

“By all that’s wonderful! It’s you again,” he said.

“Donovan!” exclaimed Peter, “What: are you doing here?”

The South African held out his hand. “I’ve got attached to one of our nigger outfits,” he said, “just up the dock from here. But what are you doing?”

“Oh, I’ve been moved from Rouen,” said Peter, “and told to join up here. Got to look after the hospital and a few camps. And I was told,” he added, “I’d live in this camp.”

“Good enough,” said Donovan. “Let me introduce you. This is Lieutenant Pennell, R.E. Lieutenant Pennell, Captain Graham. This is a bird of your kidney, mess secretary and a great man, Padre Arnold, and this is one Ferrars, Australian Infantry. He tried to stop a shell,” went on Donovan easily, “and is now recovering. The shock left him a little insane, or so his best friends think; hence, as you may have heard, he has just gone three hearts. And that’s all anyone can do at present, padre, so have a cigarette and sit down. I hope you haven’t changed your old habits, as you are just in time for a sun-downer. Orderly!”

He pulled up a large easy-chair, and Peter subsided into it with a pleasant feeling of welcome. He remembered, now, having heard that Donovan was at Havre, but it was none the less a surprise to meet him.

Donovan played a good hand when he liked, but when he was not meeting his mettle, or perhaps when the conditions were not serious enough, he usually kept up a diverting, unorthodox run of talk the whole time. Peter listened and took in his surroundings lazily. “Come on,” said his friend, playing a queen. “Shove on your king, Pennell; everyone knows you’ve got him. What? Hiding the old gentleman, are you? Why, sure it’s myself has him all the time” gathering up the trick and leading the king. “Perhaps somebody’s holding up the ace now....” and so on.

Pennell played well too, but very differently. He was usually bored with his luck or the circumstances, and until you got to know him you were inclined to think he was bored with you. He was a young-looking man of thirty-five, rather good-looking, an engineer in peace-time who had knocked about the world a good deal, but hardly gave you that impression. The Australian played poorly. With curly dark hair and a perpetual pipe, his face was almost sullen in repose, but it lit up eagerly enough at any chance excitement. Arnold was easily the eldest, a short man with iron-grey hair and very kindly eyes, a man master of himself and his circumstances. Peter watched him eagerly. He was likely to see a good deal of him, he thought, and he was glad there would be a padre as well in camp.

Donovan and Ferrars won the game and so the rubber easily, and the former pushed his chair back from the table. “That’s enough for me, boys,” he said. “I must trek in a minute. Well, padre, and what do you think of the Army now?”

“Mixed biscuits rather,” Peter said. “But I had a rum experience getting here. You wouldn’t have thought it possible,” and he related the story of the movement order. At the close, Pennell nodded gloomily. “Pack of fools they are!” he said. “Hardly one of them knows his job. You can thank your lucky stars that the D.A.Q.M.G. had a down on that Colonel What’s-his-name, or it would have taken you another month to get here, probably eh, Donovan?”

“That’s so, old dear,” said that worthy, “But I’m hanged if I’d have cared. Some place, Rouen. Better’n this hole.”

“Well, at Rouen they said this was better,” said Peter.

Arnold laughed. “That’s the way of the Army,” he said. “It’s all much the same, but you would have to go far to beat this camp.”

Pennell agreed. “You’re right there, padre,” he said. “This is as neat a hole as I’ve struck. If you know the road,” he went on to Peter, “you can slip into town in twenty-five minutes or so, and we’re much better placed than most camps. There’s no mud and cinders here, is there, Donovan? His camp’s built on cinders,” he added.

“There are not,” said that worthy, rising. “And you’re very convenient to the hospital here, padre. You better get Arnold to show you round; he’s a dog with the nurses.”

“What about the acting matron, N Base?” demanded Arnold. “He has tea there every Sunday,” he explained to Peter, “and he a married man, too.”

“It’s time I went,” said Donovan, laughing; “all the same, there’s a concert on Tuesday in next week, a good one, I believe, and I’ve promised to go and take some people. Who’ll come? Pennell, will you?”

“Not this child, thanks. Too many nurses, too much tea, and too much talk for me. Now, if you would pick me out a pretty one and fix up a little dinner in town, I’m your man, old bean.”

“Well, that might be managed. It’s time we had a flutter of some sort. I’ll see. What about you, Graham? You game to try the hospital? You’ll have to get to know the ropes of them all, you know.”

“Yes, I’ll come,” said Peter “if I can, that is.” He looked inquiringly at Arnold.

“Oh, your time is more or less your own,” he replied “at least, it is our side of the house. Are you C.G. or P.C.?”

“Good God, padre!” said the Australian, getting up too, “what in the world do you mean?”

“Chaplain-General’s Department or Principal Chaplain’s Department, Church of England or Nonconformist. And it’s sixpence a swear in this mess.” Arnold held out a hand.

Donovan caught his friend by the arm. “Come on out of it,” he said. “You won’t get back in time if you don’t. The padre’s a good sort; you needn’t mind him. So long everybody. Keep Tuesday clear, Graham. I’ll call for you.”

“Well, I’d better fix you up, Graham,” said Arnold. “For my sins I’m mess secretary, and as the president’s out and likely to be, I’ll find a place for you.”

He led Peter into the passage, and consulted a board on the wall. “I’d like to put you next me, but I can’t,” he said. “Both sides occupied. Wait a minute. N Pennell, and N’s free. How would you like that? Pennell,” he called through the open door, “what’s the next room to yours like? Light all right?”

“Quite decent,” said Pennell, coming to the door. “Going to put him there, padre? Let’s go and see.” Then the three went off together down the passage.

The little room was bare, except for a table under the window, Arnold opened it, and Peter saw he looked out over the sea. Pennell switched on the light and found it working correctly, and then sauntered across the couple of yards or so of the cubicle’s width to look at the remains of some coloured pictures pasted on the wooden partition.

“Last man’s made a little collection from La Vie Parisienne for you, padre,” he said, “Not a very bright selection, either. You’ll have to cover them up, or it’ll never do to bring your A.C.G. or A.P.C., or whatever he is, in here. What a life!” he added, regarding them. “They are a queer people, the French.... Well, is this going to do?”

Graham glanced at Arnold, “Very well,” he said, “if it’s all right for me to have it.”

“Quite all right,” said Arnold. “Remember, Pennell is next door left, so keep him in order. Next door right is the English Channel, more or less. Now, what about your traps?”

“I left them outside the orderly-room,” said Peter, “except for some that a porter was to bring up. Perhaps they’ll be here by now. I’ve got a stretcher and so on.”

“I’ll go and see,” said Pennell, “and I’ll put my man on to get you straight, as you haven’t a batman yet.” And he strolled off.

“Come to my room a minute,” said Arnold, and Peter followed him.

Arnold’s room was littered with stuff. The table was spread with mess accounts, and the corners of the little place were stacked up with a gramophone, hymn-books, lantern-slides, footballs, boxing-gloves, and such-like. The chairs were both littered, but Arnold cleared one by the simple expedient of piling all its contents on the other, and motioned his visitor to sit down. “Have a pipe?” he asked, holding out his pouch.

Peter thanked him, filled and handed it back, then lit his pipe, and glanced curiously round the room as he drew on it. “You’re pretty full up,” he said.

“Fairly,” said the other. “There’s a Y.M.C.A. here, and I run it more or less, and Tommy likes variety. He’s a fine chap, Tommy; don’t you think so?”

Peter hesitated a second, and the other glanced at him shrewdly.

“Perhaps you haven’t been out long enough,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” said Peter. “Not but what I do like him. He’s a cheerful creature for all his grousing, and has sterling good stuff in him. But religiously I don’t get on far. To tell you the truth, I’m awfully worried about it.”

The elder man nodded. “I guess I know, lad,” he said. “See here. I’m Presbyterian and I reckon you are Anglican, but I expect we’re up against much the same sort of thing. Don’t worry too much. Do your job and talk straight, and the men’ll listen more than you think.”

“But I don’t think I know what to tell them,” said Peter miserably, but drawn out by the other.

Arnold smiled. “The Prayer Book’s not much use here, eh? But forgive me; I don’t mean to be rude. I know what you mean. To tell you the truth, I think this war is what we padres have been needing. It’ll help us to find our feet. Only this is honest if you don’t take care you may lose them. I have to keep a tight hold of that” and he laid his hand on a big Bible “to mind my own.”

Peter did not reply for a minute. He could not talk easily to a stranger. But at last he said: “Yes; but it doesn’t seem to me to fit the case. Men are different. Times are different. The New Testament people took certain things for granted, and even if they disagreed, they always had a common basis with the Apostles. Men out here seem to me to talk a different language: you don’t know where to begin. It seems to me that they have long ago ceased to believe in the authority of anyone or anything in religion, and now to-day they actually deny our very commonplaces. But I don’t know how to put it,” he added lamely.

Arnold puffed silently for a little. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth and regarded it critically. “God’s in the soul of every man still,” he said. “They can still hear Him speak, and speak there. And so must we too, Graham.”

Peter said nothing. In a minute or so steps sounded in the passage, and Arnold looked up quickly. “Maybe,” he said, “our ordinary life prevented us hearing God very plainly ourselves, Graham, and maybe He has sent us here for that purpose. I hope so. I’ve wondered lately if we haven’t come to the kingdom for such a time as this.”

Pennell pushed the door open, and looked in. “You there, Graham?” he asked. “Oh, I thought I’d find him here, padre; his stuff’s come.”

Peter got up. “Excuse me, Arnold,” he said; “I must shake in. But I’m jolly glad you said what you did, and I hope you’ll say it again, and some more.”

The older man smiled an answer, and the door closed. Then he sighed a little, and stretched out his hand again for the Bible.