THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT. IN all directions men were sleeping. Some lay in attitudes of complete exhaustion, others groaned and twisted in a vain effort to find comfort for their tired bodies; many seemed in a kind of stupor, flung down on the bare boards, others slept in hammocks, and these swung slowly backwards and forwards with every roll of the ship. The sleepers muttered and groaned, the atmosphere was thick, and the sights and sounds and smells that greeted the on-looker, cannot be described in polite language. As a scene of absolute squalor and discomfort, the lower troop-deck of the hired transport City of London, would be hard to beat. "Poor devils," murmured Macmillan, as he paused at the foot of the ladder, "they have had a rotten time of it!" and, not for the first time that week, he thanked the kind fates that he had been born a good sailor. As it was, the business of making his way among all those sea-sick or sleeping men, was anything but a congenial one. The City of London continued to heave and creak, and roll and wallow, as if she were bent on making the most fuss possible about every wave. Three times already, during his watch of four hours, Macmillan had passed through the troopdeck. "Gets worse each time," he remarked over his shoulder to the sergeant who stood behind him. had A week before, the 147th sailed from Calcutta, hurried out to reinforce the troops in Zululand, and no troopship being available, the City of London had been hired by Government and temporarily fitted up for the occasion. The regiment was up to full strength, and the men were consequently crowded below, in a horrible state of discomfort. With smooth seas, things might have been bearable; but from the very first they had encountered what sailors describe as "dirty" weather-ports were shut, hatches battened down, for days the men had been unable to get a breath of fresh air, and rest for every one had been very scanty. Now What a played-out crowd, thought Macmillan. The Zulus would make short work of us if they saw us now! "Wellwe'd better get on. Be as quiet as you can," he said to the sergeant, as they began to pick their way towards the stern, where the last sentry to be visited was posted. they stooped to avoid a hammock, now swerved suddenly to one side as a sleeper, imperfectly seen in the dim light, lay across their path; so crawling and turning, they reached the other side, stood upright again, and turned down the alley-way which led to the post. Here a swinging oil-lamp gave an un certain and changing light, thrown in a different direction with each roll of the ship. Suddenly Macmillan stopped, his heart beating at an uncomfortable pace, as he caught sight of the sentry, for it appeared to him that the man, instead of standing erect, was all huddled up in a corner, his head sunk on his breast, and to every appearance fast asleep. How bitterly he regretted his carefully noiseless movements. How could he give the man at least a chance? To his right he noticed a board on which the sentry's orders were written, and with the next lurch of the ship, his shoulder came in contact with it. It fell with a surprising clatter, and instantly the sentry's challenge rang out. The words came automatically, almost as if they were jerked out of him. "Halt! Who goes there?" "Visiting rounds," answered Macmillan. "Beg pardon, sir," broke in the sergeant, "may I go?" A glance at the man's green face explained the urgency of the situation, and Macmillan nodded assent. how he watched fascinated, a great bead catch in the sentry's eyebrow and stick, until it was reinforced by first one and then another, and the whole overflowed. Then the man broke out in a hoarse whisper: "No, no, sir, not asleep! I 'eard you comin' most distinc', an' I challenged at once! 'Ow could I be asleep?" "You were leaning in the corner, and I think you were asleep," said Macmillan weakening. "No," protested the man, still in the same hoarse, earnest whisper. "I wor that tired, sir, I own I did lean up against the wall-but I swear I wor awake. I wor sleepy, but not asleep. You know, sir, 'ow I 'eard you and challenged at once! You couldn't rightly see in this light, sir!" and all the time his eyes challenged his officer desperately. What would the boy decide? brain worked He was very Macmillan's hard and fast. young, not yet nineteen, and now he was suddenly confronted with a decision which meant much, very much, to the man before him. If he were sure he had slept, then his duty Then he turned to the sentry. was to charge him with that "You were asleep!" he said offence; and he felt so nearly abruptly, and for a moment sure, that, had they been serving the two faced each other in under ordinary conditions, he silence. With one swing of the would hardly have hesitated. ship the lamp showed them The man would have been conto each other, the next swing victed, and condemned to fortyeverything was in darkness. two days in cells; but now the Down their white faces per- 147th were in a transport, going spiration rolled. Macmillan re- on service, and the punishmembered afterwards, though ment wasflogging-twenty-five he was not aware of it then, lashes. Macmillan had been his word would be taken, and it would not be fair-play if the least shadow of a doubt remained in his mind. present at several floggings was made up. It was truealready, and knew what that meant and this man, "Hope," of "F," his own company, was such a good young fellow, and a capital keen soldier, as eager for the honour of the regiment, as he was himself. No! he could not do it. He was not quite sure. Suppose he were making a mistake! . . and even if he were right? He felt he had two distinct consciences-a military conscience, and an ordinary, everyday, common-sense conscience. The military conscience told him there were three deadly crimes, from a military point of view: striking a superior officer, cowardice in face of an enemy, and sleeping on sentry. Had this incident happened a few weeks later, in Zululand, Hope might have been shot. On the other side, the commonsense conscience urged, that the man was tired out-possibly ill, and certainly suffering from want of sleep; and then, grant for the sake of argument that he had slept. Well, he had awakened so quickly, instantly in fact, that for all useful, practical purposes he was as good as awake. If Macmillan charged him, what good would it do? -and he might be making a terrible mistake. And while he thought, Hope's eyes held his "It would be your word agen mine, sir! Sergeant Brown wor too far be'ind to see-and I swear I wor awake," Hope repeated. Suddenly Macmillan's mind "Very well!" he said curtly, "I can't feel certain, so I am bound to take your word." And at that Hope began to stammer incoherent thanks; but Macmillan cut him short, swung round, and departed as silently as he had come. When he reached the deck, he threw himself into the first chair that offered. Usually on watch, especially in the small tired hours, he was forced to walk about, his youth clamoured so for sleep, but now he felt more wide awake than in broad daylight. Every sense seemed more acute than usual, he had so much to think of. All his life he had longed to be a soldier, even as quite a child, tales of deeds of personal courage and endurance had appealed to him as something immeasurably grand, and to be admired-not so much tales of absolute brute courage, but the patient enduring heroism, the simple devotion to duty, of many who are hardly known to fame; and, as he grew older, reading all he could find that told him of his heroes, his admiration of them had grown with his growth, and he had joined the army, with a very high ideal of the life he intended to lead. An ideal, which was quite real, although, as he was far from being a prig-he had never, and could never, put it into words. The scene repeated itself before his tired brain. There was Hope, usually a ruddy country boy. How white his face had been, all the lines and shadows accentuated by that horrible lamp! How his eyes had shone! He had felt them even in the dark, and how hot it had been. Mechanically he drew his handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face, though it was quite cool on deck. He could hear again the swish of the water in the scuppers, and the sounds from the uneasy sleepers in the lower troop-deck, groans and snores, and one man who talked in his sleep-till the crash of a well-directed boot woke him. He got up and shook himself. "I don't see what else I could have done," he told himself. "I don't see what any one could have done. I still think he was asleep, but I am not certain, it was very dark in that hole, and anywayit's over and done with, and I shall never know the rights of it!" During the following year, while the 147th patrolled Zululand from end to end, Macmillan felt his decision justified many times over. It was weary work, service that tested men's endurance to the utmost limit. The troops were often in a state of extreme exhaustion, and always on the verge of starvation. They learnt what it meant to be never sufficiently fed, and never to get a whole night's rest. To many at that time, a good meal and nine hours' sleep, represented the highest ideal of happiness. Twice Macmillan himself fell asleep on duty: once he was actually marching, and sudden contact with the man in front awoke him. The second time, he was kneeling behind his company, waiting in the cold grey dawn of morning, for a Zulu attack. After that he learnt the trick of resting his chin on the handle of his sword; and on each occasion he thought of the sleeping sentry, with a complete and sympathetic understanding. CHAPTER II. Twenty-five years later Macmillan, now a Colonel, strolled along the quay at Hong Kong, on his way to the ferryboat Morning Star, which should take him to Kowloon. He was due there at two o'clock, to watch a rifle match between the sergeants of his regiment and the Hong Kong Volunteers, for the Governor's Cup; but he had allowed himself ample time, for he always found much to interest him in Hong Kong harbour, which is, as everyone knows, one of the finest in the world, and on this bright December morning it was full of battleships. The Japanese Fleet had come in overnight, and every nation seemed to be represented, but to Macmillan, the life on the sampans and junks, was equally fascinating, and he loitered, now watching a family party at its midday meal, all neatly served up in little china bowls, now an interested observer of the bustle of preparation on board a junk bound for Zanzibar-while he marvelled at the mixture of courage and superstition, which will navigate a boat of such small tonnage through such dangerous seas, all the time relying for safety, on the custom which makes every Chinaman paint two very realistic eyes on his bows. As he will tell you, "Junk no having eyes, no can see; no can see, no can savvy; no can savvy, no can go." As Macmillan loitered, the striking of a clock caught his ear, and he realised he must run if he meant to catch his boat, there was barely time, and he just reached the landingstage as two imperturbable Chinamen pulled up the gangway. It was a case for jumping, and a moment later he landed on the deck, just saved from an undignified sprawl, by the friendly hand of a seafaring-looking man, who had watched his rush with keen interest. "Near thing that, sir," he said cheerfully, and as Macmillan laughed and thanked him, something in the man's voice or appearance struck him as familiar. It worried him as he passed forward, and sat down, where he could continue to watch the shipping. The stranger strolling backwards and forwards seemed to be watching him too, at least whenever Macmillan looked in his direction, he caught his eye, and idly he wondered what his occupation had been? There was something about the set of his shoulders that marked him for a soldier, and yet he rolled like a sailor. He was dressed quite respectably, in ill-fitting blue serge, evidently ready-made clothes, and he did not look in the least in want, or "down on his luck,” as Macmillan put it to himself. Had he done so, he would have connected that fact with his apparent wish to speak, and would have felt sure he was a soldier, stranded somehow in the far East, who would presently approach him with the usual formula: "Beg pardon, sir, don't you remember me, sir? I was in A Company,' and so forth. By Jove he was going to speak, as the man came forward, his mind evidently made up, and his face certainly was familiar. Where had they met before? "Beg pardon, sir! Mr Macmillan?" said the stranger interrogatively, and as Macmillan assented, a slow smile spread over his face. "You don't remember me, sir, I see, but I felt pretty sure of you. A chap don't forget an Orficer 'oo did 'im the good |