"I remember kicking that damn thing this morning when I found we were cut off," remarked Seymour, with a weary smile. "Funny how childish one is at times." "Aye--but natural. This war's damnable." The two men fell silent. "I'll have a bit of an easy here," went on the signal officer after a while, "and then go down with you." A few hours later the two men clambered out of the back of the trench. "It's easier walking, and I know every stick," remarked the Major. "Make for that stunted pollard first." Dimly the tree stood outlined against the sky--a conspicuous mark and signpost. It was the signal officer who tripped over it first--that huddled quiet body, and gave a quick ejaculation. "Somebody caught it here, poor devil. Look out--duck." A flare shot up into the night, and by its light the two motionless officers close to the pollard looked at what they had found. "How the devil did he get here!" muttered Seymour. "It's one of my men." "Was he anywhere near you when you kicked the telephone?" asked the other, and his voice was a little hoarse. "He may have been--I don't know. Why?" "Look at his right hand." From the tightly clenched fingers two broken ends of wire stuck out. "Poor lad." The Major bit his lip. "Poor lad--I wonder. They called him the Company Idiot. Do you think...?" "I think he came out to find the break in the wire," said the other quietly. "And in doing so he found the answer to the big riddle." "I knew he'd make good--I knew it all along. He used to dream of big things--something big for the regiment." "And he's done a big thing, by Jove," said the signal officer gruffly, "for it's the motive that counts. And he couldn't know that he'd got the wrong wire." * * * * * "When 'e doesn't forget, 'e does things wrong." As I said, both the Sergeant-Major and his officer proved right according to their own lights. CHAPTER III SPUD TREVOR OF THE RED HUSSARS It would be but a small exaggeration to say that in every God-forsaken hole and corner of the world, where soldiers lived and moved and had their being, before Nemesis overtook Europe, the name of Spud Trevor of the Red Hussars was known. From Simla to Singapore, from Khartoum to the Curragh his name was symbolical of all that a regimental officer should be. Senior subalterns guiding the erring feet of the young and frivolous from the tempting paths of night clubs and fair ladies, to the infinitely better ones of hunting and sport, were apt to quote him. Adjutants had been known to hold him up as an example to those of their flock who needed chastening for any of the hundred and one things that adjutants do not like--if they have their regiment at heart. And he deserved it all.