"'I weesh it vos t'rough my 'eart,' he told me later, tears rolling
down his cheeks. 'Vot more use to me my life, hein? My stomach she is
for ever ruin.'"

The General laughed. "Stout fellow for a' that."

"I grant you," said the Brigadier, "but a fellow should be stout along
accepted lines. 'To Lieutenant Felix Marcel, Comte de Blavincourt, the
Military Cross for eating his map.' No, Sir, it can't be done."

The Horse-master, who was helping himself to old tawny, nodded
vigorously and muttered "No, by Jove, it can't."

"You speak with feeling, Coper," remarked the General.

"I do, Sir. I sat up the best part of three nights last March trying
to write for official consumption the story of a fellow who seemed to
me to qualify for the 'Stout' class. It was a wash-out, though; too
absurd."

"Well, give the port a fair wind and let's have the absurdity now,"
said the General.

The Horse-master bowed to the command.

"I was with the Fifth Army last year when the wave swept us. We were
fairly swamped for the moment and all nohow. One evening, retreating
on my own line, I came upon some little village--can't remember the
name just now, but you know the sort of thing--typical Somme hamlet, a