And there is only one way to produce that character--only one. It may succeed and it may fail; the shrewdest judges of human character make mistakes, the best leaders err sometimes. But--give him responsibility, and help him to understand that responsibility, with the help that only a good leader can give. Help him to grasp that phrase--_My_ men; help him to realise that their worries are his worries, their amusements his amusements; help him to understand the value of cheerfulness when everything is damnable--utterly damnable. Then watch him. He may fail; well, you've made a mistake; but he may succeed, and then you've made a man. Which is always a thing worth doing. . . . VIII THE THIRD LESSON IS LEARNED And so it came about that three months later Reginald Simpkins--lance-corporal--and Shorty Bill--private--were seated on the fire-step of a trench side by side. With one continuous droning roar the shells passed over their heads and crumped into the German lines opposite. The days of peace for the battalion were over; in a quarter of an hour they were going over the top. Thousands like them sat on similar fire-steps and realised that same fact, for it was no little show this time: it was one where divisions and corps were involved. But to the pawns in the game, the horizon is limited: it is just their own destination, their own life, their own fate that looms up big and blots out the rest. It's not the other hundred thousand who matter at the moment--it's the pawn himself who wonders, and laughs, and sings, and prays. . . . Shorty, smoking his pipe imperturbably, was feeling the edge of his own particular weapon, with critical finger, and every now and then stealing a look at the boy beside him. Apparently satisfied at last with its sharpness he laid it down on the step and turned to our friend. "You done well, son," he remarked at length, thoughtfully removing his pipe. "I'm pleased with you. I was afraid at one time--just after you took the stripe--when some of 'em was ragging you, as you would turn out a quitter. But you got guts. You're twice the man you was when you took it; and as for what you was when you joined us, you wasn't nothing at all save a walking disease." "I'm glad you think I've made good, Shorty." Reginald was swallowing a little hard. "I--er--I--Good God! Shorty, I'm just sick with funk--that's straight." It was out at last, and Shorty Bill smiled gently and nodded his head. "Son," he remarked, "it's one good sign that you ain't afraid o' saying so. Now personally I'm not--though it ain't no credit to me. It's how we're made, I reckon. When my time comes, it comes, and there's no blamed use worrying." "I know all that, but--somehow--it ain't much comfort that idea, when it comes to the point. I tell you, Shorty, I don't want to be killed; I----" His voice died away, and he looked shamefacedly at the sandbags in front of him.