Winterbourne hesitated. He didn’t want the responsibility, it was contrary to his notion that he ought to stay in the ranks and in the line, take the worst and humblest jobs, share in the common fate of common men. But then he had consented to be a Runner. And then, he was sorely tempted. It meant several months in England, it meant seeing Fanny and Elizabeth again, it meant a respite. He was amazed to find that he didn’t want to leave Evans, and suddenly saw that what he had done in the past months had been chiefly done from personal attachment to a rather common and ignorant man of the kind he most despised, the grown-up Public Schoolboy. “What are you hesitating about?” “Well, Sir,” said Winterbourne whimsically, “I was wondering how you’d get on without me.” “*****!” said Evans. “Besides at this rate, I shan’t last much longer. Now, shall I put your name down?” “Yes, Sir.” He afterwards regretted that “Yes.” * * * * * Evans’s sharp note brought an abrupt change in their lives. They exchanged places with one of the other Pioneer companies in a quieter section of the line. Evans marched his forty men down as one Platoon, and they passed successively the four Platoons of the relieving Company. The men exchanged ironical jibes as they passed. Their new quarters were a great improvement. They were joined by a Captain, who took nominal command, and two subalterns. But no men. There appeared to be no men available. They lived in shelters and dug-outs in the Reserve Line. Winterbourne, Henderson and two other Runners lived in a two-foot shelter just outside the officers’ dug-out. Winterbourne was now officially Company Runner. He lived one fortnight in the line, and one at Battalion H.Q. The sacking bed at H.Q., the comparative absence of shelling, the better food, the rest, made it seem like paradise. He did not know that his application for a commission had been passed at once, and that he was being looked after. Two days after they got to their new quarters, in the line, Evans’s servant poked his head excitedly into the Runners’ shelter. “Winterbourne!” “Yes.” “You’re to come at once. Mr. Evans is sick.” “Sick!” Winterbourne found Evans leaning against the side of the trench, a ghastly green pallor on his face. “Whatever’s the matter, Sir?” “Gas. I’ve swallowed too much of the beastly stuff. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to the Dressing Station.” “Shall I get a stretcher, Sir?” “No, damn it, I’ll walk down. I can still stand. Take my pack and come along.”