They stood, bridles over arms, watching and listening. Every now and then, Peter sniffed at the breeze. “Gas-training”—beyond the putting-on of the helmet—had not yet been invented. He felt irritatingly ignorant. How long would the stuff take to reach them? Would he be able to see it? What did it look like? Smell like? Could it kill horses? Driver Jelks began fiddling at his satchel; extracted the clammy “P. H.” mask; shook it out; pulled it half-on, tucking up the glass eye-pieces and the rubber mouth-valve over his head. Peter saw that the man’s hands were shaking. “Not frightened, are you?” he asked. “I don’t mind shells, sir,”—stammered Jelks—“but this gas, it fairly puts the wind up me, sir.” “Don’t be a damn fool, man,” said Peter gruffly. “You’re all right as long as you’ve got your helmet on.” And then, suddenly, he saw the poison—a low gray wraith, rushing down the darkness; heard himself say, “Pull that helmet down _quick_”; caught a whiff as of rotten pears; closed mouth and nostrils; felt Little Willie wrench at bridle over his right arm; whipped gas-helmet out and on, stuffing the flaps of it under his collar. He found the rubber tubing with his lips; sucked on it; realized instantaneously that the valve leaked! Now fear had its way with him. The eye-pieces blurred. To breathe meant death. . . . He must breathe. . . . His lungs would burst. . . . Blood drummed in his ears. . . . Came another wrench at bridle-rein; with it the madness of inspiration. His right hand found the peak of the saddle, his left the cantle, swung him from ground to horse. . . . Teeth unclenched from rubber, breath surged through mouth and nostrils. . . . Now death was certain. Be damned, though, if he’d die in that acrid clammy darkness. . . . Peter jerked up the stifling cloth; felt cool air on his eyes, sweet air in his nostrils; failed for a second to realize the miracle. Then, instinctively, he knew that his leap to horse had poised him above the heavy gas-cloud, that he was looking down on it, as a man riding the fields at dusk looks down on the ground mist. . . . But even as Peter looked, the tail of the poison-belt blew clear! For a full minute, he sat his horse—motionless, amazed, still afraid to breathe. The horror had come and gone like some bestial dream. Guns were still flashing and roaring; the sky still blazed; Klaxons howled all round him. Jelks’ squat figure, cowled in its goggling mask, Queen Bess’s bridle over its arm, stood within three yards of his stirrup. Little Willie began coughing; fidgeted for a second; stood still again. “You can take that thing off,” said Peter. “Beg pardon, sir,” answered a muffled voice. “You can take that damn thing off,” roared Peter. Fumblingly, the man removed his helmet. “Was it gas, sir?” he asked. “Very much so,” began Peter; “and the next time you bring me a gas-helmet, I wish to Christ. . . .” He bit off the end of the sentence. After all, the fault lay with himself, not with his man.