"They could not be better employed. Inform them that I have arrived and
would address them."

The sentry saluted.

Standing in an attitude of deep thought, with his feet apart, his hands
clasped behind him, and his chin sunk upon his breast, Clarence made a
singularly impressive picture. He had left his Essex home three weeks
before, on the expiration of his ten days' holiday, to return to his
post of junior sub-reporter on the staff of a leading London evening
paper. It was really only at night now that he got any time to himself.
During the day his time was his paper's, and he was compelled to spend
the weary hours reading off results of races and other sporting items
on the tape-machine. It was only at 6 p.m. that he could begin to
devote himself to the service of his country.

The Scouts had assembled now, and were standing, keen and alert, ready
to do Clarence's bidding.

Clarence returned their salute moodily.

"Scout-master Wagstaff," he said.

The Scout-master, the leader of the troop formed by the various
patrols, stepped forward.

"Let the war-dance commence."

Clarence watched the evolutions absently. His heart was ill-attuned to