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I have two such incidents to record between the the travelers’ leaving the Benedictine monastery and their arriving in London in December.  The Major and Gertie have probably long since forgotten the one which they themselves witnessed, and, indeed, there is no particular reason why they should remember it.  Of the other Frank seems to have said nothing to his friends.  Both of them, however, are perfectly insignificant—­they concern, respectively, only a few invisible singers and a couple of quite ordinary human beings.  They are described with a wholly unnecessary wealth of detail in Frank’s diary, though without comment, and I write them down here for that reason, and that reason only.

The first was as follows: 

They were approaching a certain cathedral town, not a hundred miles from London, and as the evening was clear and dry, though frosty, and money was low, they determined to pass the night in a convenient brick-yard about half a mile out of the town.

There was a handy shed where various implements were kept; the Major, by the help of a little twisted wire, easily unfastened the door.  They supped, cooking a little porridge over a small fire which they were able to make without risk, and lay down to sleep after a pipe or two.

Tramps go to sleep early when they mean business, and it could not have been more than about eleven o’clock at night when Frank awoke with the sense that he had slept long and deeply.  He seems to have lain there, content and quiet enough, watching the last ember dying in the brazier where they had made their fire....  There was presently a stir from the further corner of the shed, a match was struck, and Frank, from his improvised pillow, beheld the Major’s face suddenly illuminated by the light with which he was kindling his pipe once more.  He watched the face with a sort of artistic interest for a few seconds—­the drooping shadows, the apparently cavernous eyes, the deep-shaded bar of the mustache across the face.  In the wavering light cast from below it resembled the face of a vindictive beast.  Then the Major whispered, between his puffs: 

“Frankie?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! you’re awake too, are you?”

“Yes.”

A minute later, though they had spoken only in whispers, Gertie drew a long sighing breath from her corner of the shed and they could hear that she, too, sat up and cleared her throat.

“Well, this is a pretty job,” said the Major jovially to the company generally.  “What’s the matter with us?”

Frank said nothing.  He lay still, with a sense of extraordinary content and comfort, and heard Gertie presently lie down again.  The Major smoked steadily.

Then the singing began.

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