Scotsman wherever in France he meets him. You will see them sharing each
other's canteens at the base, yarning round each other's camp fires at
the front. Wherever the pipers are, there will the Australians be
gathered together.

I asked an Australian the other day how it was that he and his mates had
struck up such a remarkable friendship with some of these Highland
regiments now camped near them. "Well, I think it's their sense of
humour," he said.

We looked at him rather hard.

"You see, they can understand our jokes," he said. "They don't seem to
take us too serious like."

And I think he had just hit it. The Australian has a habit of pulling
his mate's leg, and being on his guard against a leg-pull in return. He
has sharpened his conversation against the conversation of his friends
from the time he could speak--his uncles are generally to blame for it;
they started him on the path of repartee by pulling his legs before
those same legs had learnt to walk. As a result he is always sparring in
conversation--does not mean to be taken seriously. And the Scotsman,
cautious and always on the look-out for a feint, is seldom caught by it.
If he is, the chances are he gives it back--with interest.

It is a grim, old, dry variety of humour, and it goes with a wonderful,
grim, sturdy nature. Few people here see a Scottish regiment passing
without waiting, if they have the time, to watch the last square figure
disappear down the road. Many look at the perfect swing of the kilts,
and the strong bare knees. For myself I can never take my eyes off