When you cross to France for the first time you are so nervous about missing the boat and running the risk of a court-martial, or some other such dreadful suggestion, that you hardly dare to leave the dock gates, and you are certainly waiting at the gang-plank a full fifteen minutes before the appointed time. But those who are no longer novices to the mysterious calculation of those who regulate our army traffic, would, on receiving such instruction, immediately repair to the best hotel, there to regale themselves in a glorified afternoon tea, and afterwards seat themselves in the front row at the local Empire; subsequently rolling up at the ship's side shortly after 9 o'clock, to find that the troop-ship is not due to sail for another hour at least. Having enjoyed all the pleasure of such disregard to orders, and arriving in due course at the ship's side, I searched around for my baggage and for means of getting it on board. I had not far to look, for there were a number of soldiers standing about, whose evident duty it was to do the necessary fatigue work. I call them soldiers because they were dressed in khaki; but the King's uniform could not disguise the fact that they were the old-time dock porters. There is something about the earnest, anxious look of the dock porter, as he tenders you his services, which even the martial cut of a military uniform cannot hide. His adopted profession in peace, inscribed so deeply in his face and bearing, cannot be hidden so easily by the curtain of war. A lance corporal approached me, and, assuring me that nothing would go astray that was left in his charge, slung my kit over his shoulder with professional skill and followed me up the gang-plank, placing my belongings carefully down in what may once have been the cabin of the ship. He crossed his legs, leaned heavily with one arm on my baggage, and tipping his cap on the back of his head to enable me to see the exact amount of perspiration upon his forehead, and breathing heavily, so that I might form an exact estimate of the fatigue he had undergone, he waited in hopeful expectancy. I gave him a tip. It is against all regulations to tip a soldier; but it seemed such a natural thing to do, for his khaki uniform could not hide the habit of years. He did not salute, but touched his cap. I smiled to myself as I watched him depart. He was a soldier now; but the uniform could not disguise the fact that he was still a dock porter. We had a splendid crossing, and I shall not readily forget the romantic atmosphere of that night. The sea was calm, and a full moon cast a silvery, shimmering pathway across the water. All lights on board the troop-ship were extinguished, and with black smoke belching from the funnels, and the vibrations of the engines trembling through the ship, we made our dash across the Channel.