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Such was Dick Tiltwood, who had left school six
months before and had since passed through Sand-
hurst. He was the son of a parson with a good family
living. Generations of upright country gentlemen
had made Dick Tiltwood what he was, and he had
arrived at manhood in the nick of time to serve his
country in what he naturally assumed to be a just
and glorious war. Everyone told him so; and when
he came to Clitherland Camp he was a shining
epitome of his unembittered generation which gladly
gave itself to the German shells and machine-gunsó
more gladly, perhaps, than the generation which
knew how much (or how little, some would say) it
had to lose. Dick made all the difference to my life at
Clitherland. Apart from his cheerful companionship,
which was like perpetual fine weather, his Sandhurst
training enabled him to help me in mine. Patiently
he heard me while I went through my repetitions of
the mechanism of the rifle. And in company drill,
which I was slow in learning, he was equally helpful.
In return for this I talked to him about fox-hunting,
which never failed to interest him. He had hunted
very little, but he regarded it as immensely important
and much of the material of these memoirs became
familiar to him through our conversations in the hut:
I used to read him Stephen's letters from the Front,
which were long and full of amusing references to the
sport that for him symbolized everything enjoyable
which the War had interrupted and put an end to.
His references to the War were facetious. "An eight-
inch landed and duly expanded this morning twenty
yards from our mess, which was half-filled with earth.
However, the fourth footman soon cleared it and my
sausage wasn't even cracked, so I had quite a good
breakfast." But he admitted that he was looking