beloved Big Willy's dad. It was at that time the fashion to admire, nay, to love the German. Love is blind, and old Young called young Young: Friedrich Wilhelm.

Under this name he fought in the Boer War and climbed up the ladder from Private to Captain, while his brother Charles only advanced from Private to Corporal. After the Boer War Friedrich Wilhelm went back to ordinary civil life, and poor Charles—the real Charles, of course—was gathered to his people (to avoid saying crudely that he died).

Now, when the world skirmish began, Friedrich Wilhelm wanted to enlist again. But he was afraid lest his name should be against him, and that they, taking him for a German, should not give him any chance of advancement. So he took his brother's papers and enlisted as Corporal Charles Young. The commission, he thought, would come in time. He became Sergeant; the commission, however, failed to come. He did wonders, yet he did not ... succeed.

One day, when Lord Kitchener came to France and had a look at his men, he saw my friend.

Kitchener had a marvellous memory. He recognized him.

"Your name?" he asked.

"Sergeant Young, sir."

"Any relation of Captain Friedrich Wilhelm Young, of the ......th regiment?"

"His brother, sir."

"What is he doing?"

"He is dead, sir."

"That is a great pity. He would be a Colonel by now, I am sure. He was very like you."

You cannot ask for more of a man, even of Kitchener. Sergeant Young asked for more, for a commission, but he did not get it. And since that day he is vexed, displeased, angry with his name. He positively dreads it. He never signs anything when he can avoid it, and if he does his signature is illegible. Even I must not sign for him.

So I put my own name at the end of the letter to the Evening News, my name, Patrick Cooper, out of which the Sergeant has made first P. C., then Police Constable, and finally Privy Councillor.

It is in the quality of Privy Councillor that I address my chum, when suddenly a vivid fusillade bursts forth.

"I say, Sergeant, don't you think we are damn short of hand grenades?"

Instantly the soldier in Charles Young awakes.

"How can it be possible?"

"I can't tell you."

For one minute he reflects. Then, suddenly, he bursts out:

"They will never learn any sense! So many hand grenades for each hundred yards! Whether the hundred yards are more or less exposed, they do not care! Without you, P. C., and me things would get desperate. But I'll keep an eye open."

There he stands erect, the nostrils of his big nose vibrating, flushed and eager, with his air of a natural leader. One more minute he ponders, and then:

"So long!" he says, and stamps away.

"I'm not going to let you go out in a rain of shrapnel like this," I cry, and try to hold him back. But he is not to be dissuaded, and storms out into the pelting rain of shells and bullets. Instantly the sound of his steps is lost in the roar of the iron downpour.

I pause for a moment. What can I do? This is such an everyday incident. Impending death is nothing in the least extraordinary. So, while the various sounds of war mingle in one single note, clamorous, huge, colossal, I resume my MS. and will tell a few of the "preliminary facts" Sergeant Young is so eager to know.

Of course, I was born at Hampstead. Sons of insurance brokers often are. You cannot read a biography of Mozart without finding some reference to the influence the beautiful country of Salzburg (see first chapter) had on his talent. I had to do with Hampstead; Belsize Park to be exact. The result is obvious. Mozart, when five, performed his first concerto publicly in the hall of the Salzburg University. I did not. Still I composed little waltzes. When six, Mozart was so innocent and natural that, after having played at Vienna before the Empress, he sprang upon her lap and kissed her heartily. I will not tell you tales and assert that I sprang upon Queen Victoria's lap, but I beat Mozart on one point: I published at eight (needless to say that dad paid the printing expenses) six sets of waltzes for the piano, while Mozart published only two sets of sonatas for the harpsichord and violin.

From this moment Mozart's life and mine differ more and more. Mozart came to London and lodged in Cecil Court, St. Martin's Lane, while I went to a preparatory school, the address of which I have forgotten. Afterwards Mozart removed to Frith Street, Soho, and gave concerts in the Great Hall at Spring Gardens and at Ranelagh, while I was sent to Harrow.

For years football and cricket interested me more than music. Contrary to the usual state of things, my mother did not believe in my musical talent, and my father did. Why! Had he not spent more than £30 on the printing of my waltzes (which, by the way, remained for ten years my opus one and only)? Of course they had not sold; but that proved that I was a genius. Only potboilers sold, in dad's mind. Had Wagner's works sold at the beginning? A composer I was born, and a composer I should remain. Mother would shake her head, but father was used to having his own way. So I had plenty of piano lessons on the "You need not practise to become a good pianist" method, and at eighteen I started anew, composing some more waltzes, of course much more elaborate.

They were printed, and although they proved once more the work of a genius, viz.: unsaleable, I managed to make a handsome profit on them. Daniel Cooper and Co., Insurance Brokers, returned to his printer, who asked this time for £44. Poor dad was quite willing to shell out, but I found the figure preposterous.

"I bet you," I declared, "that I will get it for half the price."

Daniel Cooper and Co. at once handed me a cheque for £22, and after much useless running about I had the thing printed in Germany for £11, and very nicely, too.

In the following two years I had several opportunities for similar transactions. But—I blush in writing it down this was the only money I made.

Finally mother declared that she was sick of the whole business, that a musician must have some sort of knowledge of his art, that music and Hampstead were inconsistent, and that music was not only cheaply printed in Germany but also well taught.

Months, however, went by before at last I was sent away. This delay was caused by mother's idea, that I must go and study in Leipzig, because my music was being printed there, while I wished to go to Vienna, where most of the great composers had worked and starved.

Now, as I had on the one hand no wish at all to starve and but little desire to work, and on the other hand plenty of pocket money, no one will be surprised to hear that I postponed the beginning of my studies for a few days and had a look at the city of Strauss and Lanner. For as such Vienna appeared to me at first, and this impression remained to the last.

Of all the towns of Europe Vienna is the Terpsichorean town. The Viennese are passionately fond of dancing, and the women, distinguished as they are by beauty, charm, and elegance, indulge in its pleasure even at the cost of more solid qualities. And they are dressed! In Paris dressing is a luxury, in London it is a mistake, in Berlin an impoliteness, but in Vienna it is a fine art. Ah, the Viennese women! You must admire them, whether you see the fashionable ladies parading in their carriages on a May day in the principal Avenue of the Prater, or the jolly, boisterous girls whirling about in October in the dancing room of one of the village style inns where the new