It was all very unreal; all far, far away. "The night is falling fast; how can Nancy and I get home?" he reflected. Then he heard some one singing close by him; it was the song popular amongst the soldiers--a song in which he himself had joined a hundred times: "It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long, long way to go." He turned his head, and saw a soldier at his side. He too, had been stricken down in the battle; he, too was unconscious of what he was doing. "Yes, it's a long, long way to Tipperary," he murmured, and that was all, . . . a great darkness fell upon him. CHAPTER XXI When Bob awoke to consciousness again, the scene was altogether unfamiliar to him; he was lying in a big barn-like building, while around him were scores of beds, on each of which lay a wounded man. He felt weak and languid; but this he would not have minded, it was the awful pain just below his neck that troubled him--a gnawing, maddening pain. He lifted his hand to try and touch the spot; but this he could not do--it seemed to him as though he caused a fire inside it as he moved. "I'm not dead, anyhow," he reflected. "What is this, I wonder?" There were cheerful voices all round him, and he saw forms moving around the beds; but they were very dim--in fact, nothing seemed real at all: "Still I'm not dead, anyhow," he repeated; "as soon as I can, I must tell mother that; as for Nancy, she'll not want to know." That was all; it was like a scene in a play, and it passed away suddenly. When he awoke again, his mind was clearer. It was the same scene he saw, just a number of beds on which men were lying. What he took to be a soldier, wearing an officer's uniform, came and stood by him. This man felt his pulse; then he did something to his chest, which gave him a great deal of pain. He didn't trouble much about it, it didn't matter, nothing mattered. "You'll do all right," said the man; "you'll get better now." "I'm very tired," said Bob; "I should like to sleep, if I can." "Then sleep, my dear fellow." Again he awoke to consciousness; the clouds had altogether gone, and the scene was absolutely clear. He was lying in an improvised hospital; those men lying on the beds all round were wounded like himself; the man who had spoken to him was the doctor; those figures moving around the beds were nurses--each wore a red cross. Although everything was clear, he was strangely indifferent to what was taking place. What did it matter to him? He supposed that he would never fight again; his arm was useless. He felt sure of that--his right arm. Still, he had done his work, and at least he had done his best. Then a thought flashed through his mind. "Oh, but the war is not over yet, and they need me; I must get well."