believed that it was "the thing to do." They felt it a pleasure to serve, and deemed it an honour to die. There was no vulgar bragging about what they would do with the Germans. Indeed, they had chivalry enough to accord the Germans admiration for their work. War was no picnic to them. If they had slacked it in the past, they bucked into their job with a thoroughness which did them credit. In brief, they represented a few of the willing thousands who have always been eager to die for the Britain which, unfortunately, left them and their men in the lurch when saddled with poverty and old age. A materialist has termed such men the "Fools of Imperialism." Thank God, materialists are in the minority. Such "fools" have secured to us a mighty heritage. Men of this breed have stuck to the flag in the freezing Antarctic and in the sun-baked East. We know little of them, and in the times of peace care less. Yet when the drums of war are rolling hard, we turn and yell for their arms and aid. How brutally selfish; how horribly weird! Let us hope the war will teach us to honour and care for such men, when these awful days are past. Now let us review these gentlemen and their billet. First, there was old Colonel Corkleg. He was a tough old dog, with a red nose and cork stump, the relic of a grim struggle with Dervishes. He could neck the best part of a bottle of Scotch at a sitting, yet, next morning, he would be found in his cold tub before parade. Spick and span as a dandy, erect as a Guardsman, as strict as Wellington, yet every inch a gentleman. The men loved him because he gave them a square deal. And he knew his job. True, he could curse like Marlborough’s men in Flanders, but you cannot drill Militiamen without a wide vocabulary of oaths. The more original the better. To these heroic scallywags, it was the hall-mark of soldierly efficiency. But Colonel Corkleg could do more than curse. He could drill and manœuvre his men "on the top of a barrel," as the old sergeant-major used to say. When he shouted "’Shun" they shivered; when he roared out "double" they ran like hares. And he was not afraid. Men loved to tell of how he had killed a dozen niggers in a skirmish, and captured a cannibal king with only a smile and a walking-stick. You will therefore realise that Colonel Corkleg was a good fellow; you will also understand how every man felt confidence in his leadership. Confidence in a colonel, let me tell you, is worth everything in a fight.