With regard to my country, in these days of war, I do what I can.  Until finally flattened out by the War Office, I pestered them for such employment as a cripple might undertake.  As an instance of what a paralytic was capable I quoted Couthon, member of the National Convention and the Committee of Public Safety.  You can see his chair, not very unlike mine, in the Musee Carnavalet in Paris.  Perhaps that is where I blundered.  The idea of a shrieking revolutionary in Whitehall must have sent a cold shiver down their spines.  In the meanwhile, I serve on as many War Committees in Wellingsford as is physically possible for Sergeant Marigold to get me into.  I address recruiting meetings.  I have taken earnest young Territorial artillery officers in courses of gunnery.  You know they work with my own beloved old fifteen pounders, brought up to date with new breeches, recoils, shields, and limbers.  For months there was a brigade in Wellings Park, and I used to watch their drill.  I was like an old actor coming once again before the footlights....  Of course it was only in the mathematics of the business that I could be of any help, and doubtless if the War Office had heard of the goings on in my study, they would have dropped severely on all of us.  Still, I taught them lots of things about parabolas that they did not know and did not know were to be known—­things that, considering the shells they fired went in parabolas, ought certainly to be known by artillery officers; so I think, in this way, I have done a little bit for my country.

With regard to my friends, God has given me many in this quiet market town—­once a Sleepy Hollow awakened only on Thursdays by bleating sheep and lowing cattle and red-faced men in gaiters and hard felt hats; its life flowing on drowsily as the gaudily painted barges that are towed on the canal towards which, in scattered buildings, it drifts aimlessly; a Sleepy Hollow with one broad High Street, melting gradually at each end through shops, villas, cottages, into the King’s Highway, yet boasting in its central heart a hundred yards or so of splendour, where the truculent new red brick Post Office sneers across the flagged market square at the new Portland-stone Town Hall, while the old thatched corn-market sleeps in the middle and the Early English spire of the Norman church dreams calmly above them.  Once, I say, a Sleepy Hollow, but now alive with the tramp of soldiers and the rumble of artillery and transport; for Wellingsford is the centre of a district occupied by a division, which means twenty thousand men of all arms, and the streets and roads swarm with men in khaki, and troops are billeted in all the houses.  The War has changed many aspects, but not my old friendships.  I had made a home here during my soldiering days, long before the South African War, my wife being a kinswoman of Sir Anthony, and so I have grown into the intimacy of many folks around.  And, as they have been more than good to me, surely I must give them of my best in the way of sympathy and counsel.  So it is in no spirit of curiosity that I have pried into my friends’ affairs.  They have become my own, very vitally my own; and this book is a record of things as I know them to have happened.