falling in love with the Major at first sight.

We stumbled along between the rails and over the sleepers, led by the
Major, who carried a hurricane lamp, and by the help of its fitful rays
we leapt across the pools of water left in every hollow. We passed some
cattle-trucks. The Major held up the lamp and scrutinised a legend in
white letters--


Hommes 40. Chevaux 12.


"Reminds me of the Rule of Three," said the Major meditatively. "If one
Frenchman is equal to three and one-third horses, how many Huns are
equal to one British soldier?"

"They are never equal to him," said the subaltern brightly. "If it
wasn't for machinery we'd have crumpled them up long ago."

"True, my son," said the Major, "and well spoken."

The men were grouped round the cattle-trucks, each man with his kit and
120 rounds of ammunition. They had just been through a kit inspection,
and the O.C. in charge of details had audited and found it correct by
entering up a memorandum to that effect in each man's pay-book. Though
how the O.C. completes his inventory of a whole draft, and certifies
that nothing from a housewife to thirty pairs of laces per man is
missing, is one of those things that no one has ever been able to
understand. Perhaps he has radiographic eyes, and sees through the
opaque integument of a ground-sheet at one glance. Also the Medical