With my cap on the side of my head, a pack on my back, a service rifle in my hands, and my pockets bursting with penny picture papers, I was the very model of the British soldier returning from leave.

I had also a packet of Woodbine cigarettes and a hunch of bread-and-cheese for the journey.

And I had a railway warrant made out in my name for London.
Then my friend gave me supper--bread and cold meat and a bottle of Bass, which I wolfed savagely, for I had had nothing since breakfast.
He was a curious fellow, as discreet as a tombstone, very ready to speak about general subjects, but never once coming near the intimate business which had linked him and me and Heaven knew how many others by means of a little purple-and-white cross in a watch-case.

I remember we talked about the topics that used to be popular at Biggleswick--the big political things that begin with capital letters.

He took Amos's view of the soundness of the British working-man, but he said something which made me think.