“In good weather; but the men can’t see much more than the mountains. Weather has a lot to do with making a place of that sort bearable or not. The fellows who arrived in the winter must have found it pretty ghastly; but the fellows arriving now haven’t much to complain of beyond the loss of their liberty. In fact, fellows from the slums and from poor country homes were never better off in some ways.” “That may be; but it must be pretty deadly putting in time.” “They’ve plenty to do, especially if they like work. The organisation there is quite good. The men are more or less under military discipline, their own military discipline. There’s a commandant, who is an internee, to each cage, and orders trickle through from him. In fact, I find responsible Sinn Feiners saying that it would be a good thing for the nation if all the uneducated fellows could be roped into one of these camps for a bit.” “They’re educated free, gratis and for nothing?” I asked. “Arrivals are taken to the commandant’s office and are put through it there, for they are very afraid of spies, and everybody suspects everybody else. Each hut has an intelligence officer to find out what he can about his men, to prevent them talking rashly, and to keep note of all that goes on outside the cages. They try to take the numbers of motor-cars, to remember any faces they can get a glimpse at for future reference, and to glean any information that’s going.” “But what’s taught?” “Irish first and foremost. There used to be daily drills; but it has been put a stop to. There’s not much doubt that they still hold military classes in the huts. There appear to be all sorts of other classes--book-keeping, shorthand, and lots of commercial things. There’s a sprinkling of educated chaps among the others. Let’s see what else? There’s football and that kind of thing. There are shops of sorts, too. A young chap can knock a bit of fun out of things. The people who find conditions hardest are elderly cultivated men, and, of course, it must be the devil for fathers of families, who must be wondering whether their people are starving or not.” “What are the rations like?” “The same as the soldiers, and if anybody goes short it’s the soldiers. There’d be such a fuss otherwise. At first the Tommies cooked for them; but they made such a fuss they were allowed their own cooks, and the military cooks were left to do their worst among their own people. There are a good many food complaints, chiefly from chaps who never had a square meal in their lives before. Their people send parcels, to the sorrow of the censors, who have to probe into cakes and gape into pots of jam for messages. And some devoted mothers send meat, which goes bad.” “To the still greater sorrow of the censors?” “The fellows have built their own chapel and furnished it, and services are held by an interned priest.” “I suppose letters are censored?”