were the talk of the town in those first days after Roger departed.
Would they meet? Would they keep it up? Would they bear the ridicule
of the other boys of their own age? And how in the world would they
pray?

Time answered all these questions except the last. They met, they
continued to meet, they faced ridicule like heroes. But how did they
pray? That mystery was as deep and insoluble as before, for whatever
awful oath of secrecy bound them to silence not a whisper of the
doings of those Tuesday evenings was divulged to the outside world.

I was the only one who ever knew, and I found out by chance. Ted
Harper had borrowed "Fights for the Flag" from me, and when I got it
back there was a soiled piece of paper in it with something written
in Ted's ungainly hand. I thought he had been copying a passage, and
anxious to see what had struck him, I opened the sheet out and read
these words:--"O God, it's a hard business praying. But Roger made
me promise. And you know how decent he's been to me and the crowd.
Listen to us now, and excuse the wrong words, and bring him back safe.
And, O God, make him the bravest soldier that ever was, and give him
the V.C. That's what we all want for him. And don't let the war be
long, for Christ's sake. Amen."

I felt a good deal ashamed of myself when I came to the end of this
artless prayer. I had got their secret. I could see them kneeling
round the Mission forms, two or three with crumpled papers in their
hands. They were unutterably shy of religious expression, and to read
was their only chance. The boys on whom the fatal lot fell the
previous Tuesday were bound to appear with their written devotions a
week later. This war has given us back the supernatural, but no