And at his gate will come, as a rule, Jock’s first real greeting.  A dog, grown old since his departure, will come out, wagging his tail, and licking the soldier’s hand.  And Jock will lean down, and give his old dog a pat.  If the dog had not come he would have been surprised and disappointed.  And so, glad with every fibre of his being, Jock goes in, and finds father and mother and sisters within.  They look up at his coming, and their happiness shines for a moment in their eyes.  But they are not the sort of people to show their emotions or make a fuss.  Mother and girls will rise and kiss him, and begin to take his gear, and his father will shake him by the hand.

“Well,” the father will ask, “how are you getting along, lad?”

And—­“All right,” he will answer.  That is the British soldier’s answer to that question, always and everywhere.

Then he sits down, happy and at rest, and lights his pipe, maybe, and looks about the old room which holds so many memories for him.  And supper will be ready, you may be sure.  They will not have much to say, these folk of Jock’s, but if you look at his face as dish after dish is set before him, you will understand that this is a feast that has been prepared for him.  They may have been going without all sorts of good things themselves, but they have contrived, in some fashion, to have them all for Jock.  All Scotland has tightened its belt, and done its part, in that fashion, as in every other, toward the winning of the war.  But for the soldiers the best is none too good.  And Jock’s folk would rather make him welcome so, by proof that takes no words, than by demonstrations of delight and of affection.

As he eats, they gather round him at the board, and they tell him all the gossip of the neighborhood.  He does not talk about the war, and, if they are curious—­probably they are not!—­they do not ask him questions.  They think that he wants to forget about the war and the trenches and the mud, and they are right.  And so, after he has eaten his fill, he lights his pipe again, and sits about.  And maybe, as it grows dark, he takes a bit walk into town.  He walks slowly, as if he is glad that for once he need not be in a hurry, and he stops to look into shop windows as if he had never seen their stocks before, though you may be sure that, in a Scottish village, he has seen everything they have to offer hundreds of times.

He will meet friends, maybe, and they will stop and nod to him.  And perhaps one of six will stop longer.

“How are you getting on, Jock?” will be the question.

“All right!” Jock will say.  And he will think the question rather fatuous, maybe.  If he were not all right, how should he be there?  But if Jock had lost both legs, or an arm, or if he had been blinded, that would still be his answer.  Those words have become a sort of slogan for the British army, that typify its spirit.