Down the road behind him, headlamp flaring recklessly, dodging in and out among the traffic, a motor-cycle phutted its jolting way. The Weasel jumped into the middle of the road; stood there, coat open, arms outstretched. The cyclist halted, dropping one leg to the ground. “D.R.L.S.?” asked the Weasel. “Yes, sir. I’m in a hurry.” “To hell with your hurry. Put that blasted lamp out. Now wait.” The Weasel shaded the Orilux torch at his belt; drew a message-pad from his pocket; inserted the carbon; began to write. And while he wrote, very meticulously, he thought of the Brigade he had trained so carefully, of his wife and the life she carried, and of a certain individual at St. Omer who would not be displeased if Weasel Stark happened to make a mistake. . . . For in the bigger affairs of earth, as in the smaller, it is easier to break a subordinate than admit one’s own failure. . . . “Sign on the message-form, please,” rasped the Weasel, holding his hand over the meticulous words. Then he tore off the top copy, and stuffed it into an envelope which he addressed, marking the time of dispatch on the space provided, to: “B.M. Southdown Div. Arty.” “And now,” rasped the Weasel, “why the devil didn’t you shout out who your message was for? Don’t you know your job?” “O.C. 4th Southdown Brigade R.F.A., sir,” said the cyclist. “He’s at Le Rutoire farm, sir. . . .” “Is he?” said the Weasel; and opening the envelope, began to read: “Further to my B.M. 764, through 7 D.A., please report by bearer map-references of your batteries and what time G.O.C. 2nd I.B. proposes to attack. . . .” “Why didn’t Davson or Hathway bring this?” asked the Colonel. “I don’t know, sir. I only joined Divisional H.Q. this morning.” The Weasel turned the torch on his own face: “You’ll know me next time, young man. Now buzz off.” “I was told to wait for an answer, sir,” said the cyclist, slipping the empty envelope, signed for evidence of receipt, into the case slung at his side. “You’ve got your answer,” rasped the Weasel. “Buzz off; and be quick about it.” “Don’t switch on that headlamp till you reach Vermelles,” the great voice boomed like a megaphone through the phutting darkness. § 6 One o’clock A. M. on the morning of the 26th. A drizzle of rain. Stretching a mile down the road from Corons de Rutoire, its last water-cart just clear of the shell-fire on the Vermelles railway-crossing, waits a long column of dripping horses, loaded vehicles and weary men. The men are dismounted. They stand, gunners by gun-wheels, drivers at horses’ heads. “What’s happening, Joe? I dunno. Wish we could smoke. Where’s the old man? Up in front! Anyone hit in your lot? Only our Number one’s horse. Just a splinter. . . .” Laughter. . . . “Bet he danced a bit. Who bound it up? The Doc. Good for the Doc. He ought to be at Number Nine Hospital. What-ho!”