"Often." 

 A few more questions settled Sandy. Then Claud came forward, adjusting his eyeglass. 

 "Better take that window out of your face, young fellow. What's your name?" 

 "Claud Dufair." 

 "Father?" 

 "Lord Dufair." 

 "You're the goods, young fellow. Now, do you think you can stand up to me for five rounds?" 

 "Boxing's a beastly bore, sir; but I would have a go—certainly." 

 "Right! I'll make you corporal. We've need of your brains. By the way, why did you leave home—women and wine, eh?" 

 "Well—yes, sir." 

 "Human failing—we're all like that," soliloquised Sam, who had been one of the lads in his day.  "Now, boys, about turn, and off for your uniform—good day." 

 "Good day, sir," replied the four, attempting to salute. 

 "Good lads—good lads!" muttered Sam to himself as they stumbled through the door. 

 Three days afterwards Sam had his thousand men. He quartered them in tents, selected some old soldiers for instructors, and commenced to train for war. Sergeant-Major Jones, an ex-Imperial Army man, was the terror of the show. This warrant officer realised what he was up against—a thousand rebels against convention, hypocrisies, and shams. They called a spade a spade.  "Red tape" they cursed, and stupid officialdom they loathed. They were freemen, Bohemians of the plains. In the Bush they had learned to fight, cook, scheme, and generally look after themselves. Pioneers of the toughest kind. The type that has made our Empire what it is to-day. In drink they were like savages, ready to shoot the men they hated, ready to give a drunken embrace to the men they liked and respected. 

 And few of them were fools. Many could rip off Shakespeare by the yard; others could recite, in a feeling 

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