was as black as the devil’s waistcoat, and as big as a bullock. He didn’t know much about form fours, but he could kill a pit pony with a punch and chuck a man over his head. "A useful man," the colonel whispered to the adjutant, and then in a louder tone remarked, "Put Mr Coals in No. 3 Company." This company, by the way, had its records in the poaching and wife-beating annals of every Parish Council. Coals was therefore in a sphere where his hulking personality would be useful. Second Lieutenant Grain had the smell of horses about him. He was studying for medicine, but he knew more about his father’s Clydesdales. Indeed, when he arrived, his boots had the scent of the stable, and his coat a few stray wisps of straw sticking around. A rough but likely looking chap. The colonel saw this, and after looking him up and down remarked, "You’ll be transport officer. Here are some warrants—go out anywhere, everywhere, for two days. Commandeer 107 horses, and mind—no crocks." "Very good, sir," replied Grain, disappearing with the transport sergeant. He returned two days later with 107 thoroughbred hunters, Clydesdales, and roadsters. The colonel gasped when he saw them on the square, and promptly stood the subaltern a drink. "Useful man, that Grain," he said to the adjutant that night. "The O.T.C. has been kind to us, if they’ve been unkind to other regiments. Get him gazetted lieutenant." This was one instance of the work of mobilisation. And mobilisation, I can assure you, is enough to send men to the grave. Think of gathering 1200 men, then fitting them out for war. Trousers came from Pimlico, buttons from Birmingham, thread from Timbuctoo, jackets from the sewing-rooms of the Hebrews, while rifles came in instalments from Woolwich, Stirling, Ashanti, and Lahore. Shovels were found in the ironmongers next the barracks; shirts were collared in the nearest emporium; plates, basins, knives, forks, and spoons were found in the fish and chip bazaars of the town. "Buy locally," was the order from the C.O.O.—(the Chief Ordnance Officer)—a very important personage, whose duty is to supply everything, from siege guns to bed pans. Imagine the worry! The Quartermaster took heart disease and died; the Quartermaster-Sergeant got drunk and was reduced, and so the work devolved upon a faithful corporal and a few intelligent aides. But the work went on, for Colonel Corkleg was a soldier. He might easily have given Napoleon points in organisation for war.