He sank into a chair, and shadows of fatigue marred his face. "Last night, Sylvester," he said slowly, "I lay awake for hours, and sometimes in the awful darkness that surrounds one when sleep refuses to come, things seem clearer and more cruel than in daylight. Last night I saw myself for the first time.... I do not say I shall change.... It is too late, I think...." An hour later he left his flat, fully dressed, and strolled into the sun-lit streets. A newsboy dashed past, screaming in strident tones, "All night fighting--Canadian Line still holding;" and then, apparently feeling the announcement needed identification, he shrieked, "All about that great big European War." Montague heard his name spoken. It was the ex-bank clerk, the young subaltern with the uninspired face. "Good-bye," he said rather shyly. "Where are you going?" "Marching orders," said the other. "We leave here to-morrow. By jove, we've got something to fight for now!" Montague murmured his best wishes and moved on, but the words that kept running through his brain were those of the boy's manager who had written "A decent enough fellow, but lacking in initiative." VI His walk, unplanned as it was, drew him towards the center of the city. He mechanically avoided the streets that were crowded, and, like a bit of flotsam on the ocean's surface, was guided and buffeted until, turning down a quiet side-street, he emerged upon the corner of a huge stone building. He glanced up, to realize that it was the Armories and was about to change his course when a recruiting sergeant, noticing his hesitation, stepped up to him. "Beg pardon," he said, "but was you lookin' to sign up?" "Sign up?" Montague repeated the words automatically. "Sure--sign up with the Brindle's Battalion." "The Brindle's Battalion?" "Come off that parrot stuff," growled Sergeant Saunders. Montague shook himself together. "I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. The sergeant shuffled uneasily. "Say, don't be so dashed polite," he said, not ill-naturedly. "I'm here to get recruits. We're a tough bunch; we're a rough bunch; but we're men. Our boys ain't strong on polish or eddication, and they're no boozeless, non-smoking crowd; but they're straight, and they're game, and they're men." "They're men," repeated Montague, dazed by a dizziness that seemed to wrap himself and the sergeant in an enveloping mist. "That's what I said," reiterated Sergeant Saunders, mentally noting that he would make Montague drop his sing-song if he ever got the opportunity. "What do you say, old scout?" Montague glanced up. "Will you take me?" he said.