As one man the whole lot of us, about thirty, took one pace forward. The Major smiled. “Good,” said he. “Any man _not_ want to go--prove.” No man proved. “Well, look here,” said the Major, “I hate to disappoint anybody but only twenty-eight of you can go. You’ll have to draw lots.” Accordingly bits of paper were put into a hat, thirty scraps of paper, two of them marked with crosses. Was it a sort of inverted omen that the two who drew the crosses would never find themselves under little mounds in France? We drew in turn, excitement running high as paper after paper came out blank. My heart kicked within me. How I prayed not to draw a cross. But I did! Speechless with despair the other man who drew a cross and I received the good-natured chaff of the rest. I saw them going out, to leave this accursed place of boredom and make-believe, for the real thing, the thing for which we had slaved and sweated and suffered. We two were to be left. We weren’t to go on sharing the luck with these excellent fellows united to us by the bonds of fellow-striving, whom we knew in sickness and health, drunk and sober. We had to remain behind, eating our hearts out to wait for the next draft--a lot of men whom we did not know, strangers with their own jokes and habits--possibly a fortnight of hanging about. The day was a Friday and our pals were supposed to be going at any moment. The other unlucky man and myself came to the conclusion that consolation might be found in a long week-end leave and that if we struck while the iron of sympathy was hot the Major might be inclined to lend a friendly ear. This indeed he did and within an hour we were in the London train on that gloomy Friday morning, free as any civilian till midnight of the following Tuesday. Thus the Major’s generosity. The only proviso was that we had both to leave telegraphic addresses in case---- But in spite of that glorious week-end in front of us, we refused to be consoled, yet, and insisted on telling the other occupants of the carriage of our rotten luck. We revelled in gloom and extraneous sympathy until Waterloo showed up in the murk ahead. Then I’m bound to confess my own mental barometer went up with a jump and I said good-bye to my fellow lancer, who was off to pursue the light o’ love in Stepney, with an impromptu Te Deum in my heart.