Swinburne, “Les Noyades.” Seeing how many unstable ex-soldiers came to the Lodge of Instruction (attached to Faith and Works E.C. 5837) in the years after the War, the wonder is there was not more trouble from Brethren whom sudden meetings with old comrades jerked back into their still raw past. But our round, torpedo-bearded local Doctor--Brother Keede, Senior Warden--always stood ready to deal with hysteria before it got out of hand; and when I examined Brethren unknown or imperfectly vouched for on the Masonic side, I passed on to him anything that seemed doubtful. He had had his experience as medical officer of a South London Battalion, during the last two years of the War; and, naturally, often found friends and acquaintances among the visitors. Brother C. Strangwick, a young, tallish, new-made Brother, hailed from some South London Lodge. His papers and his answers were above suspicion, but his red-rimmed eyes had a puzzled glare that might mean nerves. So I introduced him particularly to Keede, who discovered in him a Headquarters Orderly of his old Battalion, congratulated him on his return to fitness--he had been discharged for some infirmity or other--and plunged at once into Somme memories. “I hope I did right, Keede,” I said when we were robing before Lodge. “Oh, quite. He reminded me that I had him under my hands at Sampoux in ’Eighteen, when he went to bits. He was a Runner.” “Was it shock?” I asked. “Of sorts--but not what he wanted me to think it was. No, he wasn’t shamming. He had Jumps to the limit--but he played up to mislead me about the reason of ’em.... Well, if we could stop patients from lying, medicine would be too easy, I suppose.” I noticed that, after Lodge-working, Keede gave him a seat a couple of rows in front of us, that he might enjoy a lecture on the Orientation of King Solomon’s Temple, which an earnest Brother thought would be a nice interlude between labour and the high tea that we called our “Banquet.” Even helped by tobacco it was a dreary performance. About half-way through, Strangwick, who had been fidgeting and twitching for some minutes, rose, drove back his chair grinding across the tessellated floor, and yelped: “Oh, My Aunt! I can’t stand this any longer.” Under cover of a general laugh of assent he brushed past us and stumbled towards the door. “I thought so!” Keede whispered to me. “Come along!” We overtook him in the passage, crowing hysterically and wringing his hands. Keede led him into the Tyler’s Room, a small office where we stored odds and ends of regalia and furniture, and locked the door. “I’m--I’m all right,” the boy began, piteously.