Across the turf towards him, white hair ruffling in the breeze, darted the doctor, looked for a second at the thing on the ground. “Shell-dressings! In my cart. Quick as you can. Case of instruments. My orderly!” Peter rushed off. . . . He came back carrying a great armful of lint, to find the doctor and Bromley on their knees. A boot, bloodsoaked, was lying on the ground. “Cut the seam,” he heard; and “all right, Doc,” from Bromley. Something ripped: they were turning over the thing which had been his cousin. “Dressings,” said the doctor, “thanks.” He took them, began bandaging the ripped flesh. Francis opened his eyes; saw Peter standing over him. “Make—him—give—me—morphia,” gasped Francis. Then pain stunned him; he lay there, as a shot rabbit lies, eyes still open. . . . The doctor’s orderly came running, case under his arm. “Morphia,” said the doctor calmly, not looking up from his work. “Rip that sleeve, please.” . . . Blessed needle slid under white flesh: eyes closed. “More dressings, please,” said Doctor Carson, “and you can be getting up that wheeled stretcher, Masterson.” § 6 “Will he live, Doc?” Peter, rather white about the gills, watched the stretcher down the road, out of sight. “I’m afraid not. Though mind you, there’s a chance. The left femur’s broken; that right foot. . . . But there, you saw for yourself.” “You’d better look after these, P.J.” Bromley handed over a bundle of papers, a wrist-watch, a morocco leather photograph-case. Peter stuffed them into his pocket; walked back to the Colonel. He had been awake so long, the thing had happened so suddenly, that the fact of the casualty being his cousin hardly touched him. He felt the horror—but horror numbed, impersonal. . . . At the Colonel’s side, leaning over from his horse, Peter found Murchison. “Any news from your F.O.O.?” asked the Brigade Major. “No. Wire’s broken. I’m having it repaired. Hallo, what the devil’s that?” He pointed to the crest on their right. Little figures, figures of men running, rose over the skyline; bunched together as they streaked down the hill. A shell burst black among the figures—a second shell. And up the slopes towards the figures, galloped miniature horses with tiny jockeys; and as they reached the crest, horses silhouetted black against the sky-rim, the jockeys flung themselves from their saddles; dashed forward out of sight. And still little men poured back over the hill, past the waiting horses. . . . “My God,” said Murchison, “I thought at first they must be Boches.” (For there were two hundred British guns in that great saucer of ground.) . . . “My God,” rasped the Weasel, “I wish they had been.” (For it is not good to watch the unofficial side of history in the making.) . . . Suddenly, they heard a voice, roaring, “Action”; an orderly dashed up; “Through to F.O.O. sir.”