“To ’ell!” said Mr. Pettigrew recklessly, and swung himself into a passing bus. As he climbed the steps he noted that it passed Waterloo station, and for an instant the flame of good intent, temporarily dowsed, flickered into life again. His ship, he remembered, was under sailing orders. He found himself alone on top of the bus, and walked forward to the front left-hand seat. For a moment he stood there, gripping the rail and peering ahead through the stinging rain while the bus lurched and skidded on its way through deserted streets. Then his imagination, quickened somewhat by hot whisky and water, obliterated the impulse of conscience. He saw himself twenty-four hours later, standing thus as port look-out on board his destroyer, peering ahead through the drenching spray, gripping the rail with numbed hands.... “Oh--to _’ell_!” said Mr. Pettigrew again, and sitting down gave himself up sullenly to amorous anticipation.... He was interrupted by a girl’s voice at his elbow. “Fare, please.” He turned his head, and saw it was the conductress, a slim, compact figure swaying easily to the lurch of the vehicle. Her fingers touched his as she handed him the ticket, and they were bitterly cold. “Nice night, ain’t it?” said Mr. Pettigrew. “Not ’arf,” said the girl philosophically. “But there! it ain’t so bad for us ’s what it is for them boys in the trenches.” “Ah!” said Mr. Pettigrew archly. “Them boys--_’im_, you means.” The girl shook her head swiftly. Seen in the gleam of a passing lamp, her face was pretty, and glistening with rain. “Not me,” she said. “There was two--my brothers--but they went West. There’s only me left ... carryin’ on.” The bus lurched violently, causing the little conductress to lose her balance, and her weight rested momentarily against Mr. Pettigrew’s shoulder. She recovered her equilibrium instantly without self-consciousness, and stood looking absently ahead into the darkness. “That’s what we’ve all got to do, ain’t it?” she said--“do our bit....” She jingled the coppers in her bag, and turned abruptly. Mr. Pettigrew watched the trim, self-respecting little figure till it vanished down the steps. “Oh ’ell!” he groaned, as imperious flesh and immortal spirit awoke to renew the unending combat. Five minutes later the conductress reappeared at Mr. Pettigrew’s shoulder. “Waterloo,” she said. “That’s where all you boys gets off, ain’t it ...? You’re for Portsmouth, I s’pose?” “That’s right,” said Mr. Pettigrew. He jerked to his feet, gripping his bundle, and made for the steps with averted head. “’Night,” he said brusquely. The bus slowed and stopped. “Good luck,” said the girl. * * * * *