Boom! boom! boom! . . . Boom! boom! boom! Dirl and skirl; skirl and dirl! So to the heart-lifting, hell-raising music of pipes and drums they marched down to the railway.
At the station it seemed as though they had been expected to break all records in military entraining. There was terrific haste and occasional confusion, the latter at the loading of the vans. The enthusiasm was equalled only by the perspiration. But at last everything and nearly everybody was aboard, and the rumour went along that they had actually broken such and such a battalion's record.
Private William Thomson, however, had already started his inevitable grumbling. There were eight in the compartment, and he had stupidly omitted to secure a corner seat.
'I'll bet ye I'm a corp afore we get to Dover,' he bleated.
'That's as near as ever ye'll be to bein' a corporal,' remarked the cheerful Jake. 'But hoo d'ye ken it'll be Dover?'
'I'll bet ye —— Na! I'll no tak' on ony mair wagers. I've a tremenjous bet on wi' this yin'—indicating Macgregor—'every dashed penny I possess—that we're boun' for Flanders. He says the Dardanelles.'
All excepting Macgregor fell to debating the question. He had just remembered something he had forgotten to say to Christina; also, he was going away without the ring she was to have given him. He was not sorry he was going, but he felt sad. . . .
The debate waxed furious.
'I tell ye,' bawled Willie, 'we're for Flanders! The Ninth's been there since the——'
A sudden silence! What the —— was that? Surely not—ay, it was!—an order to detrain!