"'Urry up off the car, please. WAIT till they're all off. Move right down the centre, please. Wot are you doin' there? Come orf it if you're comin' orf. Get a move on, please. 'Urry up on board. Come on there. RIGHT BEHIND." A siren shrilled and we were moving again. "Can't you set the kid down, Mother?" said a voice. "You can't carry her like that. Be quiet, 'Enry, will you." I managed to struggle out of my seat. "Thank you, Sir," said the man. "Sit down, Em'ly. That's better. Now you can 'old the kid. Shut up, 'Enry, will you?" I looked for Henry and found him wedged in a forest of legs. "I think he's afraid of being trodden on," I said. We managed, with some effort, to extract the child and make him a little more comfortable. His father turned with a sigh of relief to me. "Awful business travellin' with kids nowadays, ain't it?" he said. "I can quite believe it," I said. "Bad enough anywhere," he went on, "but on this line--well--and they stick up placards tellin' you to be patient. Patient! With a wife and two kids, and them young jackanapes at Victoria a-howling at you all the time. If there's one thing I 'ate it's bein' 'ustled." He laughed resentfully. "'Come on, get a move on.' 'Jump to it!' Shoutin' and howlin' till you don't know whether you're gettin' on or gettin' orf. Anybody'd think we was a lot of blinkin' animals." Something clicked inside my head (I hesitate to suggest what) and the carriage and the swaying people went out of focus. * * * * * There was a little squad of soldiers piling arms. "Stand clear," said the subaltern in charge. "Stand at--ease. Stand easy. Carry on, Sergeant." The P.T. Instructor came forward. "Now, lads," he said briskly, "take off your equipment and your tunics and puttees and roll up your sleeves. And while you're doin' it listen to your Uncle Brown, who's goin' to give things away. "I 'aven't took any of you lads before--(come along there, my son; we ain't syncopatin' the movements)--but I'm told you're all B.E.F. men. Well then, I expect you think you know something. So you do. You know what a Jerry looks like and what a Whizzbang sounds like. But that ain't much. You don't know me. 'Ave a good look at me. You'll 'ear what I _sound_ like in a minute." He paused for effect and breath. "Now you 'ave 'ad a look at me you'll know me. Not the Apollo Belgravia, but just plain Brown--Mrs. Brown's old man--that's me; and thank 'Eaven it's 'im you've got to deal with and not Mr. Brown's old woman. Now we'll get to work, lads, and 'ustle's the word." He moved away a few paces. "When I say 'Round me nip,'" he shouted, "I want to see a cloud of dust and a livin' statue. Round me--NIP!" There was boxing. "'It 'im," yelled Brown; "you ain't doin' a foxtrot! Bite 'is ear orf! Make 'is nose bleed!" Their noses bled. There were bayonet charges on stuffed sacks.