What a splendid squadron-sergeant major, regimental sergeant-major, yea, what a fine officer he would have made, had he been reliable. But there, you can’t have an officer, nor a non-com., either, who lies shrieking and blubbering on the floor _coram publico_, and screams to God and man to save him from the snakes that exist only in his own drink-deranged mind. For of course it can only be Drink that produces “Snakes”! Yes, it is only through the ghastly alcohol-tinted glasses that you can “see snakes”—any fool knows _that_. And the fools of the Queen’s Greys knew it, and hoped to God that Matthewson would “keep off it” till after the Divisional Boxing Tournament and Assault-at-Arms, for, if he did, the Queen’s Greys would certainly have the Best Man-at-Arms in the Division and have a mighty good shot at having the Heavy-Weight All-India Champion, since Matthewson had challenged the Holder and held an absolutely unbroken record of victories in the various regimental and inter-regimental boxing tournaments in which he had taken part since joining the regiment. And he had been “up against some useful lads” as Captain Chevalier, the president and Maecenas of the Queen’s Greys’ boxing-club, expressed it. Yes, Matthewson had his points and the man who brought the Regiment the kudos of having best Man-at-Arms and Heavy-Weight Champion of India would be forgiven a lot. And Damocles de Warrenne blessed the Divisional Boxing Tournament, Assault-at-Arms, and, particularly, the All-India Heavy-Weight Championship. Occupation, labour, anodyne…. Work and deep Sleep. Fighting to keep the Snake at bay. No, fighting to get away from it—there was no keeping it at bay—nothing but shrieking collapse when It came…. From parade ground to gymnasium, from gymnasium to swimming-bath, from swimming-bath to running-track, from running-track to boxing-ring, from boxing-ring to gymnasium again. Work, occupation, forgetfulness. Forget the Snake for a little while—even though it is surely lurking near—waiting, waiting, waiting; nay, even beneath his very foot and _moving_…. Well, a man can struggle with himself until the Thing actually appears in the concrete, and he goes mad—but Night! Oh, God grant deep sleep at night—or wide wakefulness _and a light_. Neither Nightmare nor wakefulness _in the dark_, oh, Merciful God. Yes, things were getting worse. _He was going mad. MAD_. Desert—and get out of India somehow? Never! No gentleman “deserts” anything or anybody. Suicide—and face God unafraid and unashamed? Never! The worst and meanest form of “deserting”. No. Stick it. And live to work—work to live. And strive and strive and strive to obliterate the image of Lucille—that sorrow’s crown of sorrow. And so Trooper Matthewson’s course of training was a severe one and he appeared to fear rest and relaxation as some people fear work and employment.