After the "Nut" before the war (complete in Opera hat and monocle) and "now" in khaki, I could think of nothing more, and boldly, but with some trepidation, asked if any gentleman in the audience would care to be drawn. You can imagine the scene. A tent packed with Tommies, every available place taken up, and those who could not find seats sitting on the floor right up to the edge of the stage. Yells of delight greeted the invitation, and several made as if to come forward; finally, one unfortunate was heaved up from the struggling mass on to the stage. I always noticed after this that whenever I offered to draw anyone it was always a man with absolutely _no_ particularly "salient" feature (I think that is the term) who presented himself. This individual could best be described as "sandy" in appearance, there was simply _nothing_ about him to caricature, I thought in despair! The remarks from the audience, which had been amusing before, now fairly bristled with wit, mostly of a personal nature. My subject became hotter and hotter as I seized the charcoal pencil and set off. "Wot _would_ Liza say?" called out one in a horrified voice. "Don't smile, mate, yer might 'urt yer fice," called another. "Take 'is temperature, Miss," they called, as the perspiration began to roll off him in positive rivulets, and "_Don't_ forget 'is auburn 'air," they implored. As the poor unfortunate had just been shorn like a lamb, preparatory to going into the trenches, this was particularly cutting. The remark, however, gave me an inspiration and the audience yelled delightedly while I put a few black dots, very wide apart, to indicate the shortage. When finished we shook hands to show there was no ill feeling, and quite cheerfully, with the expression of a hero, he bore his portrait off amid cheers from the men. The show ended with a song, _Sergeant Michael Cassidy_, which was extremely popular at that time. For those who have not heard this classic, it might be as well to give one or two verses. We each had our own particular one, and then all sang the chorus. "You've heard of Michael Cassidy, a strapping Irish bhoy. Who up and joined the Irish guards as Kitchener's pride and joy; When on the march you'll hear them shout, 'Who's going to win the war?' And this is what the khaki lads all answered with a roar: _Chorus_ "Cassidy, Sergeant Michael Cassidy, He's of Irish nationality. He's a lad of wonderful audacity, Sergeant Michael Cassidy (bang), V.C." _Last Verse_ "Who was it met a dainty little Belgian refugee And right behind the firing line, would take her on his knee? Who was it, when she doubted him, got on his knees and swore He'd love her for three years or the duration of the War?" _Chorus_, etc. This was encored loudly, and someone called out for _Who's your lady friend?_ As there were not any within miles excepting ourselves, and certainly none in the audience, it was rather amusing.