“I’m so proud.  I think it’s wonderful your going out there.”

Sec.9

What more is there to tell of that old first period of my life which ended at the gates of Devonport Dockyard?  There was a long railway journey with Doe, where half the best of green England, clad in summer dress, swept in panorama past our carriage windows.  Perhaps we both watched it pass a little wistfully.  Perhaps we thought of bygone holiday-runs, when we had watched the same telegraph lines switchbacking to Falmouth.  There was a one-night stay at the Royal Hotel, Devonport; and a walk together in the fresh morning down to the Docks.  There was a woman who touched Doe’s sleeve and said:  “You poor dear lamb,” and annoyed him grievously.  There was the fat policeman’s challenge at the gates.  And then we were through.

We had walked a little way, when a boy from the Royal Hotel, whom the policeman suffered to pass, ran up to us like a messenger from a world we had left behind.

“Lieutenant Ray, sir,” he called.

I turned round and said “Yes?” inquiringly.

“Here’s a telegram, sir, that arrived just after you left.”

I took it undismayed, knowing it to be yet another telegram of good wishes.  “I’ll bet you, you poor dear lamb,” I said to Doe, “the words are either ‘Good-bye and God-speed,’ or ’Cheerioh and a safe return.’”

“Not taking the bet,” said Doe.  “How else could it be phrased?”

“Well, we’ll see,” said I, and opened the envelope.  The words were: 

“I am with you every moment—­MOTHER.”

CHAPTER II

PADRE MONTY AND MAJOR HARDY COME ABOARD

Sec.1

Doe and I have often looked back on our first glimpse of Padre Monty and wondered why nothing foreshadowed all that he was going to be to us.  We had entered the Transport Office on one of the Devonport Quays, to report according to orders.  Several other officers were before us, handing in their papers to a Staff Officer.  The one in a chaplain’s uniform, bearing on his back a weighty Tommy’s pack, that made him look like a campaigner from France, was Padre Monty.  We could only see his back, but it seemed the back of a young man, spare, lean, and vigorous.  His colloquy with the Staff Officer was creating some amusement in his audience.

“Well, padre,” the Staff Officer was saying, as he handed back Monty’s papers, “I’m at a loss what to do with you.”

“The Army always is at a loss what to do with padres,” rejoined Monty pleasantly, as he took the papers and placed them in a pocket.  “However, you needn’t worry, because, having got so far, I’m going on this blooming boat.”

“But I’ve no official intimation of your embarking on the Rangoon.”

Padre Monty picked up a square leather case and, moving to the door, said: