At the end of nearly three months Tom was moved to another camp still nearer the south coast. He had a presentiment that the time was not far distant when he would have to cross the sea, and know in real earnest what soldiering was like. In a way he was glad of this; like all youths he longed for excitement, and wanted to come to close grips with the thing he had set out to do. On the other hand however, he could not help looking forward with dread. When on reading the newspapers he saw long lists of casualties, and heard stories of the men he had known, who went out healthy and strong and never came back again, and others who were brought home maimed for life, he had a strange feeling at his heart, and a sinking at the pit of his stomach. It was not that he felt afraid, but there was a kind of dread of the unknown. What would it be like to die? "I hear we're off soon," said Alec McPhail to him one day. "There's no telling," said Tom laconically. "Ay, but we shall," replied Alec, "and I shall be glad, I'm getting sick of this life in the camps." "I doan't wonder at it," said Tom. "What micht ye mean by that?" asked the Scotchman. "I am fair stalled wi' thee," said Tom. "I thought that you, being a thinking sort o' chap, would know better. You saw what a fool I was making of myself, and yet you kept on drinking and carousing, and making a ninny of yourself, as though you had no more brains nor a waterhen. Why, lad, with your education and cleverness, you might have been sergeant-major by now. Nay, nay, keep thee temper; I mean nowt wrong." The Scotchman looked at Tom angrily for some seconds. He seemed on the point of striking him, then mastering himself he said, "Ay, Tom, you're richt, and yet I'm no' sure." "What do you mean?" asked Tom. "Tom, man," said the Scotchman, "ye canna think worse of me than I think of mysel'. I had a good home too, and a godly mither; as for my father he was a hard man, but just, very just. Ay, I know I ought to have known better, but the whisky got hold of me. Besides----" "Besides what?" asked Tom. "Ay, man, I'm not a hero when it comes to facing death. I fancy I'm as brave as most men about lots of things, but I just shiver when I think o' dying; then I tak' a wee drap of whisky, and it gi'es me courage." "Poor sort of courage," replied Tom; "besides, you take more than a 'wee drap,' as you call it." "Ay, it needs mair and mair. But it's this way, Tom; when I think of going over the water into those trenches, and when I think of the shells falling all around me; when I call to mind that men may be dying at my richt hand and on my left, blown all to smithereens, I get afraid, but after I have filled mysel' fou' of whisky I don't care. I know I ought to be ashamed of mysel'; I know, too, it's the wrang sort of courage. As for you, Tom, you have been wiser than me, you've got releegion." "Nay, I've nowt o' th' sort," replied Tom, "I've just kept straight, that's all."