Every few yards Evans had to stop and lean against the trench wall. He heaved, but did not vomit. Winterbourne offered his arm, but he wouldn’t take it. They passed two corpses, rather horribly mutilated, lying on stretchers at the end of the communication trench. Neither said anything, but Evans was thinking, “Well, gas is better than that,” and Winterbourne thought, “How long will it be before some one puts me there?” He finally got Evans to the Dressing Station, supporting him with his right arm. They shook hands outside. “You’ll get your commission, Winterbourne.” “Thanks. Are you all right, Sir? Shall I come down with you farther?” “No, go back and report that you left me here.” “Very good, Sir.” They shook hands again. “Well, good-bye, old man, best of luck to you.” “Good-bye, Sir, good-bye.” He never saw Evans again. * * * * * When Evans had gone, Winterbourne’s interest in the Company suddenly evaporated. He did not know the new officers, rather disliked the Captain, and, of course, was not on the same footing with them as he had been with Evans. Henderson left for England to be trained as an officer. Winterbourne felt lonelier than ever. And he realized with disgust and horror that his nerve was gone. His daily trips were really very easy—about a mile and a half, a few gusts of machine-gun bullets, and about thirty or forty crumps on the road each way. The Germans had discovered some tanks hidden behind a slag-hill round which he had to pass. They shelled it with heavies. Winterbourne now found that he had to force himself to walk forward to them and through the area where they were bursting. It was worse at night. One night he did what he had never done before when carrying a message—waited ten minutes for the shelling to quiet down. That ten minutes, curiously enough, saved his life. He heard several shells fall in and around Company H.Q. just as he came along the trench. One of them had fallen plump on their fragile shelter and blown it to pieces, instantly killing the Runner, Jenkins, a boy of nineteen, who was lying there. If Winterbourne had not lingered that ten minutes on the road, he would inevitably have been killed, too. He felt very guilty about it. Perhaps if he had come back, the boy would have been sent back with a return message. But, no, if there had been a return message, it would have been his job. He lost his blanket, groundsheet and pack. The Runners were transferred to a similar shelter twenty yards farther on. Winterbourne hated to pass the smashed shelter. He always thought of Jenkins, and his absurd boyish grin. Jenkins had been errand-boy and then assistant to a grocer in a small provincial town. A most undistinguished person. He had a solemn respect for “John Bull” and its opinions. Otherwise he wasn’t solemn at all, always cracking rather pointless jests, and grinning his boyish grin, and hardly ever grousing. Winterbourne regretted him.