Miles was at the same moment making the same remark to his friend in reference to Simkin, and with greater truth. "But I don't wonder that the men who drink, go in for it harder than ever here," continued Miles. "There is such hard work, and constant exposure, and so little recreation of any sort. Yet it is a pity that men should give way to it, for too many of our comrades are on the sick-list because of it, and some under the sod." "It is far more than a pity," returned Armstrong, with unwonted energy. "Drink with its attendant evils is one of the great curses of the army. I have been told, and I can well believe it, that drink causes more loss to an army than war, the dangers of foreign service, and unhealthy climates, all put together." "That's a strong statement, Willie, and would need to be founded on good authority. Who told you?" "Our new parson told me, and he is in my opinion a good authority, because he is a Christian, if ever a man was; and he is an elderly man, besides being uncommonly clever and well informed. He told us a great many strong facts at the temperance meeting we held last night. I wish you had been there, Miles. It would have warmed your heart, I think." "Have you joined them, Willie?" "Yes, I have; and, God helping me, I mean to stick by them!" "I would have gone to the meeting myself," said Miles thoughtfully, "if I had been asked." "Strange," returned Armstrong, "that Sergeant Hardy said to me he thought of asking you to accompany us, but had an idea that you wouldn't care to go. Now, just look at that lot there beside the grog-shop door. What a commentary on the evils of drink!" The lot to which he referred consisted of a group of miserable loungers in filthy garments and fez-caps, who, in monkey-like excitement, or solemn stupidity, stood squabbling in front of one of the many Greek drinking-shops, with which the town was cursed. Passing by at the moment, with the stately contempt engendered by a splendid physique and a red coat, strode a trooper--one of the defenders of the town. His gait was steady enough, but there was that unmistakable something in the expression of his face which told that he was in the grip of the same fiend that had captured the men round the grog-shop door. He was well-known to both Armstrong and Miles. "Hallo! Johnson," cried the latter. "Is there any truth in the--" He stopped, and looked steadily in the trooper's eyes without speaking. "Oh yes, I know what you mean," said Johnson, with a reckless air. "I know that I'm drunk." "I wouldn't say exactly that of you," returned Miles; "but--"