As the train pulled out of the station a cheer went up and handkerchiefs fluttered. The sole other occupant of the carriage, a young--very young--subaltern who had just said good-bye to his mother, muttered to himself and blinked hard out of the window. The Lonely One shrugged himself more deeply into his seat, and abstractedly reversed the newspaper. A paragraph caught his eye: “Artillery activity developed yesterday in the sector south of Leuville St. Vaast. An enemy attempt to raid our trenches at this point was foiled.” He smiled a trifle, and putting down the paper fell to thinking. Unable to contain himself any longer, the boy in the corner spoke. “Rotten job, this going back show,” he said. The other assented gravely, and they fell to talking, spasmodically, of the Front. Pure, undiluted shop, but very comforting. Finally the train arrived at the port of embarkation. A crowd of officers of all ranks surged along the platform, glanced at the telegram board, and passed on towards the boat. The Lonely One stopped, however, for his name in white chalk stared at him. He got the telegram eventually and opened it. It contained only two words and no signature: “Good luck.” Flushing a trifle he walked down to the waiting mail-boat, and getting his disembarkation card passed up the gangway. An air of impenetrable gloom hung over the dirty decks. Here and there a few men chatted together, but for the most part the passengers kept to themselves. The lonely man found the young lieutenant waiting for him, and together they mounted to the upper deck, and secured two chairs aft, hanging their life-belts on to them. A little later the boat cast off, and they watched the land fade from sight as many others were watching with them. “Ave atque Vale.” “I wonder ...” said the youngster, and then bit his lips. “Come below and have some grub,” the other said cheerily. They ate, paid for it through the nose, and felt better. Half an hour later they were in Boulogne. As they waited outside the M.L.O.’s office for their turn, the younger asked: “I say, what Army are you?” “First.” “So’m I,” joyfully, “p’raps we’ll go up together.” “I hope so, but we shall have to stop here the night, I expect.” Even as he said so a notice was hung outside the little wooden office: “Officers of the First Army returning from leave will report to the R.T.O., Gare Centrale, at 10.00 A.M. to-morrow, Saturday, 17th instant.” “That settles it,” said the elder man, “come along, and we’ll go to the Officers’ Club and bag a couple of beds.” “Nineteen hours,” wailed the other, “in this beastly place! What on earth shall we find to do?” “Don’t worry about that--there is usually some one to whom one can write.” It was both a hint and a question. “Yes--ra--_ther_!”