Captain Godfrey, our manager, must have been proud indeed of the “business” his troupe did.  The weather was splendid; the “houses” everywhere were so big that if there had been Standing Room Only signs they would have been called into use every day.  And his company got a wonderful reception wherever it showed!  He had everything a manager could have to make his heart rejoice.  And he did not, like many managers, have to be continually trying to patch up quarrels in the company!  He had no petty professional jealousies with which to contend; such things were unknown in our troupe!

All the time while I was singing in France I was elaborating an idea that had for some time possessed me, and that was coming now to dominate me utterly.  I was thinking of the maimed soldiers, the boys who had not died, but had given a leg, or an arm, or their sight to the cause, and who were doomed to go through the rest of their lives broken and shattered and incomplete.  They were never out of my thoughts.  I had seen them before I ever came to France, as I traveled the length and breadth of the United Kingdom, singing for the men in the camps and the hospitals, and doing what I could to help in the recruiting.  And I used to lie awake of nights, wondering what would become of those poor broken laddies when the war was over and we were all setting to work again to rebuild our lives.

And especially I thought of the brave laddies of my ain Scotland.  They must have thought often of their future.  They must have wondered what was to become of them, when they had to take up the struggle with the world anew—­no longer on even terms with their mates, but handicapped by grievous injuries that had come to them in the noblest of ways.  I remembered crippled soldiers, victims of other wars, whom I had seen selling papers and matches on street corners, objects of charity, almost, to a generation that had forgotten the service to the country that had put them in the way of having to make their living so.  And I had made a great resolution that, if I could do aught to prevent it, no man of Scotland who had served in this war should ever have to seek a livelihood in such a manner.

So I conceived the idea of raising a great fund to be used for giving the maimed Scots soldiers a fresh start in life.  They would be pensioned by the government.  I knew that.  But I knew, too, that a pension is rarely more than enough to keep body and soul together.  What these crippled men would need, I felt, was enough money to set them up in some little business of their own, that they could see to despite their wounds, or to enable them to make a new start in some old business or trade, if they could do so.

A man might need a hundred pounds, I thought, or two hundred pounds, to get him started properly again.  And I wanted to be able to hand a man what money he might require.  I did not want to lend it to him, taking his note or his promise to pay.  Nor did I want to give it to him as charity.  I wanted to hand it to him as a freewill offering, as a partial payment of the debt Scotland owed him for what he had done for her.