They were still yelling and howling, looking for him. Demons, bogymen—and here was the loudest, and fiercest, the worst of them all—louder and louder to a tremendous chorus of all the noises devils ever made. He was flinging himself down to escape the demon clutch (thereby probably saving his life, since the great shell burst a bare score yards away) when he heard the thunderous clash of the furnace-doors flung back, caught a searing glimpse of the leaping red flames, and was hurled headlong. As he fell he tried to scream. He did scream, but—although he knew nothing of the gap, and thought it was on the instant of his falling—it was days later—a queer choking, strangled cry that brought a cool hand on his hot forehead, a quiet voice hushing and soothing him and saying he was “all right now.” He opened his eyes and closed them again with a sigh of relief and content. A low light was burning by his bed, the shadowy figure of a woman bent over him, and between the opening and closing of his eyes, his mind flicked back to full fifteen years. “I’m glad I waked, Nursie,” he said weakly. “I’ve had a drefful dream; the very dreffulest I’ve ever had.” IX THE GILDED STAFF A TALE OF THE OLD CONTEMPTIBLES BROADLY speaking, the average regimental officer and man of the fighting units is firmly convinced beyond all argument that a “Staff job” is an absolutely safe and completely _cushy_[2] one, that the Staff-wallah always has the best of food and drink, a good roof over him, and a soft bed to lie on, nothing to do except maybe sign his name to a few papers when he feels so inclined, and perhaps in a casual and comfortable chat after a good dinner decide on a tactical move, a strafe of some sort, issue the orders in a sort of brief “Take Hill 999” or “retire by Dead Cow Corner to Two Tree Trench” style, and leave the regiments concerned to carry on. Briefly, the opinion of the firing line might be summed up in a short Credo: “I believe the Staff is No Good. “I believe the Staff has the cushiest of cushy jobs. “I believe the Staff never hears a bullet whistle or sees a shell burst except through a telescope. “I believe the Staff exists solely to find soft jobs for the wealthy and useless portion of the aristocracy. “I believe the Staff does nothing except wear a supercilious manner and red tabs and trimmings. “I believe the Staff is No Good.” As to the average of correctness in this Credo I say nothing, but I can at least show that these things are not always thus.