live country, not a dead one. Good morning!"

So Fortescue drifted up-country and found employment on a farm. It was hard work. The polished 'Varsity man, who hardly knew how to use a saw or to drive a nail in straight, found it particularly so. He had grit. He got on well with his fellow farm hands, who promptly dubbed him "Fortyscrews", a name that was eventually cut down to "Screws". He accepted the nickname cheerfully, stuck to his job, and in five years saved enough to start sheep-farming on his own account.

Then came the war. Fortescue promptly "sold out" and enlisted. At Gallipoli he acquitted himself manfully, was mentioned for gallantry in an affair at Quinn's Post, and was brought back to Alexandria in a hospital ship, with a wound sufficiently dangerous to smash many a man up completely.

Given the chance of being sent either to England or to New Zealand, he chose the latter alternative. In six months he was himself again. Re-enlisting, he was offered a staff job at Featherston, but declined it, preferring to see more fun at the Front. For the second time Trevor Fortescue had marched over The Summit on the long trail that ended within sight and sound of hostile guns.

Dusty, tired, footsore, but in high spirits, the Thirty-somethingth marched into camp at Trentham. Their stay was but a short one, for three days later the reinforcement embarked at Wellington on Transport 99 for England--and France.

CHAPTER IV

The Interrupted Concert

Transport 99, otherwise the S.S. Awarua, was a single-screw vessel of 8000 tons. Originally a combined passenger and cargo boat, she had been ruthlessly converted into a troop-conveying ship, and the internal rearrangements were not by any means suitable for her new rôle. Nevertheless, after the first few days, when many of the men were prostrate with sea-sickness, the troops soon accustomed themselves to their new conditions, and settled down with the fixed determination to make the voyage a sort of maritime picnic.

"Say, Quarter," began Fortescue, addressing the Quartermaster-sergeant, "how about a sing-song on the mess deck this evening? Most of the boys have found their sea-legs, and there's no lack of talent."

"Good idea!" replied the Q.M.S. "We'll form ourselves into an entertainment committee. Let me see: there's Sergeant Thomson, he's a bit of a vocalist."

"Unfortunately he shot his false teeth over the side last night," reported Malcolm. "He was so jolly bad that he never realized his loss till this morning. He's out of it, I fancy."

"We'll put him down anyway," declared Fortescue. "There's M'Kie and Macdonald: they'll open with a duet on the bagpipes."

Other names were submitted and approved, not-withstanding the fact that their owners were not consulted on the matter.

"How about the officers?" enquired Selwyn. "They are to be invited, I suppose?"

"Rather," replied Fortescue. "By the way, what has Lieutenant Nicholson been doing to get his left optic in a sling? He wasn't looking skywards out of one of the ports when Thomson jettisoned his ivories?"

"Dunno," replied the M. S. "He was all right when he went the rounds last night."

"I know," chipped in another N.C.O. "It was the Padre."

"The Padre!" exclaimed half a dozen voices. "Our Padre been scrapping?"

"Hardly!" was the reply. "He shares a two-bunk berth with the Lieutenant. Padre has, or had, the upper bunk, and he tops the scale at sixteen stone. I don't insinuate, mind you, that any of the fellows tampered with the ironwork, but all the same the bunk collapsed, and our Padre subsided heavily upon poor little Nicholson."

"We'll get the company poet to write up a special stanza and recite it at the concert," declared Fortescue. "Sort of object lesson on the way our Padre tackles sin."

The men, remembering that the Lieutenant's initials were S.I.N., laughed uproariously. These impromptu concerts gave them poetic licence to joke at the expense of their officers. The latter, too, were quite used to that sort of thing. In fact they enjoyed it. Even the popular Padre found these entertainments a welcome antidote to the dull business of censoring letters.

The concert--as far as it went--was a huge success. According to The Deep Sea Roll, the Thirty-somethingth's magazine, the opening items and the honorary reporter's notes were as follows:--

"A duet by the brothers Mac. I thought they would never finish, due mainly to Macdonald, who had his Scotch blood up and his bagpipes in good wind."

"Sergeant Thomson next stepped into the ring and gave 'Thora' a slap up. It was a pity he lost his teeth, but, thank goodness, he has not lost his voice."

"Tiny Anderson's voice was like his size--tremendous. 'Asleep in the Deep' was his song. I thought he was asleep at one part of it."

There was no lack of enthusiasm on the part of the audience. The men, packed like sardines in a barrel, filled the mess-deck almost to suffocation, their boisterous applause increasing in volume as item succeeded item in quick succession.

"Item seven--Cornet Competition," announced Sergeant Fortescue. "Sisters Howard and O'Dowd have kindly consented to act as judges."

Prolonged sounds of cheering greeted the two Red Cross nurses as they stepped upon the platform with marked timidity. They would perhaps--and did--unhesitatingly and calmly assist the medical officers in their work of mercy and within range of hostile shells, but their present task was an ordeal.

Four strapping young fellows, each armed with a highly-polished cornet, appeared and stood facing their critical audience, receiving their caustic comments with a studied indifference.

"Rifleman Gilway."

Rifleman Gilway advanced two paces, lifted the instrument to his lips, and distended his cheeks. Beyond an eerie gurgle ("the last gasp of a dying flounder", according to the above-quoted honorary reporter) not a sound came from the cornet. The audience, rocking with laughter, threw shouts of encouragement and advice to the would-be musician, but all in vain. Rifleman Gilway's eyes were riveted upon the half of a cut, juicy lemon displayed within six inches of his face by a waggish subaltern. The sight of the acid fruit effectually prevented the man getting a single note out of the instrument. He puffed and blew like a grampus, the tears ran down his distended cheeks, and the perspiration oozed from his forehead, till in disgust he retired from the contest.

Cornet No. 2 shared the same fate, after a gallant struggle. By this time the audience was almost silent. The men could laugh no longer. They were almost on the verge of hysterical tears of excessive merriment.

The third competitor withdrew without an effort, but the fourth was something of a strategist. He used his music-card as a screen to shut out the sight of the tantalizing lemon. By so doing he had to lean forward slightly. His cheeks were bulging, but again silence--mysterious silence.

Compared with Rifleman Gilway's efforts those Of Corporal Jephson were simply terrific. His whole frame shook under the tremendous force of lung power. The doctor began to shift uneasily in his chair, anticipating a case of apoplexy. Jephson's face gradually changed in colour fro light bronze to a deep purple. Something had to go----

Something did! From the interior of the instrument a wad of paper was ejected with the velocity of a stone from a catapult. In its wake followed, a compact mass of viscous substance. Both struck the waggish subaltern full in the face, and then the nature of the "main charge" became apparent. It was treacle. A practical joker had primed Jephson's cornet with the sticky stuff, plugging it with a wad. Amidst renewed outbursts of cheering the subaltern retired for repairs and renewals, while the lady judges were fortunately spared the task of bestowing the palm upon the cornet champion of the