I heard the story from Tommy himself. He showed us the camp; first the burial-ground, and then--“Well there ain’t much more to see ’ere. That’s the parade-ground, and that’s the sergeants’ mess. We sleeps over there, and bein’ Sunday, the canteen don’t open to-day till six. We usually shoots the goal, and smokes, and sometimes we rags the blacks. See that nigger ’ut? Well, we goes there sometimes--of course, it’s out’er bounds--and takes the beer and rags the blacks. Once we chucked three or four of ’em over the gully because they set on one of ours. There’s one or two in cells now for molestin’ the natives. Then some of us deserts, you know. Goes off down to the coast, ships as firemen and gets to the States. I ’aven’t done that yet. Don’t know why we come up ’ere; there ain’t no fever nowhere now....” It was a long and interesting description he gave us. I gathered that in spite of the parade-ground and kicking the goal; in spite of the reading-room, with its platform and soldier-painted scenery; in spite even of the tiny billiard-table and the picturesque cemetery, the life of Tommy in garrison at Newcastle is not a jolly one. Tired of doing the things he is allowed to do, and without the means to appreciate expensive joys of the canteen, the youthful, full-blooded soldier sallies forth on mischief bent. Then he experiences a salutary change of scenery in the confines of the cells. Sometimes, as our friend remarked, he deserts. Every year for many weary months a few hundred Tommies do these things in Newcastle. Kingston and the plains are peopled by tourists in search of health and pleasure; the climate of the island is entirely salubrious; Jamaica is a recognised sanatorium; but the Government says that the British soldier must live in the Hill station so many months of the year. It is a ridiculous story, something in the nature of a repetition of the blunders of fifty years ago. Then the British regiments were sent to garrison Fort Augusta, a camp delightfully situated in the midst of a deadly swamp. From Fort Augusta the military authorities jumped to Newcastle. Fifty years hence these gentlemen may realise that the plains of Jamaica are perfectly healthy, and that Newcastle is really a little dull; until then--poor Tommy.