And there was Alf Spender—"Uncle Ga-Ga." His age was a mystery. His own estimate, for war purposes, was forty-one. The ladies of the chorus put it among themselves at a hundred and fifty. It was possibly fifty-four, or thereabouts. He was a frail creature, with a simple soul, and what Americans call a "single-track" mind. He had been a super or chorus man ever since he could remember; and until the year nineteen fourteen had never relinquished a humble ambition to achieve a speaking part. But now all that was cast to the winds. His single track was carrying other traffic. Somewhere within his ill-nourished frame burned the pure white flame of genuine patriotism. His one desire was to be admitted to the privilege of khaki, and to do his humble part in "teaching those dirty Germans a lesson." He never rested in his efforts to qualify. He dyed his scanty locks; he endeavoured, by daily study of a manual of Swedish exercises, to school his feeble limbs and sickly body to the requisite pitch of efficiency. He offered himself at every recruiting station in London, giving a different name at each. But all in vain; no one would accept him. He could pass no physical test; a big heart was not enough. "Still, I haven’t given up hope," he confided to Marjorie. "I have just discovered a really admirable hair-tonic; and there’s a new strengthening-food come on the market, which may help. Of course, the chief difficulty is my teeth; an M.O. turns me down the moment he examines them! I haven’t many, you see, and what I have don’t fit together very well; and good dentistry runs into money—a fiver, at least. But I don’t despair—not by any means. They will want me in time! It seems inhuman to say so, but I do trust this battle that’s just started on the Somme won’t finish the war right off. I couldn’t bear to see the troops coming back victorious, and feel that I did nothing to help!" Here was another Willing Horse. Marjorie’s heart warmed to him; they became friends. They shared a newspaper at rehearsals, discussing Sir Douglas Haig’s daily bulletin word by word. They read between the lines, and decided that, despite newspaper heroics to the contrary, the gigantic offensive of July the First had only been partially successful. "We never got through on the left at all," said Alf. "Look at that place on the map—Thiepval. We were meant to carry that bang off, and we didn’t! They don’t say so, but we didn’t! We have broken their line all right, but the trouble is that we have broken it on too narrow a front—and I think it’s all because of that Thiepval place. We must widen the gap, or the attack fails. Shall I tell you what I would do if I were head of the Army Council?" "Yes—do," said Marjorie, eagerly.