“Honours!” almost shouted Hutton. “Do you think that one of our fellows, in a corps like ours, whose name will be forgotten in this country six months after we are disbanded, and will never be even heard of in England, count honours for anything, when even if we won them we could not share them with those who are never, save when we are drunk, out of our minds? No, West, my dear fellow, you fight for your home, for your wife and kids, and for the country of your adoption, but what have we to fight for? New Zealand to us is only a wayside station passed on our journey through life. Yes, by the Lord Harry, I may well ask you what we do fight for. It’s not for our six bob a day, for any man can make his pound a shift at the diggin’s for half the fatigue and none of the exposure; no, nor is it for the offal served out to us called rations; nor for the gilt and glory of war, for there is none here. So I ask you again, West, what is it that makes a man like me, another like Ginger Dick the blackbird catcher, or Holy Joe, the drunken, unfrocked parson, fight like we do and suffer the hardships we have to undergo? Why is it, answer me that?” West said not a word, but pointed at the flag that floated at the peak of a ship of war, removed his hat and whistled a bar or two of “God Save the Queen.” In a moment Hutton was on his feet. “Yes, by Satan, you’ve struck it!” he shouted. “It’s the Queen and flag, God bless them, that claims us, and gives every one of us skallywags and ne’er-do-wells a chance and right, no matter what we have done in the past, to at all events die like gentlemen in their service. But look here, you fellows, I must apologise, must have gone a bit dotty. It’s Burke’s fault. Why the deuce do you come among us with your London-built coat and your Bond Street rig-out, to make a poor devil remember? Never mind, care killed the cat. There goes the tiffin gong. Let’s make the most of our remaining chances at the fleshpots of Egypt, for in a short time, Burke, you will have to exist on rations that you only eat to keep body and soul together, so sling ahead and let’s russle our hash.” After lunch I informed the horrified Tim that we were to join the Forest Rangers as privates, that for a time the difference between master and man must be forgotten, and that in future we must be comrades on the same plane. The worthy man took some time to absorb the information, and when he had fully grasped the idea blurted out: “Well, begorra, we won’t. Fancy the likes of me being chummy with the likes of you, Mr Dick. Av course, sor, av you join as private, I join too, but I’m your man, sor, still, and be this an’ be that, I’ll be so.” Later on, under the guidance of Hutton, I purchased my own and Tim’s outfit. Riding breeches and boots, also good flannel shirts, in those days called Crimean shirts, we had already, but after Hutton had picked out two blue jumpers he selected with great care two strong and warm but light woollen shawls.