Sandiland said, “Wait, Bombardier,” grabbed the second telephone, repeated Finlayson’s first massage, (“Splendid,” murmured the voice of Purves) “and I want to speak to the Colonel. . . . Thanks. . . . Is that you, sir? . . . Jameson’s been hit . . . I don’t know, sir. . . . I’m to send out another F. O. O. . . . Very good, sir.” The battery-commander handed back the instrument with a little gesture of disgust. Technically, of course, Revelsworth was right. They _ought_ to send out another F. O. O. Still, it seemed unnecessary risk of a valuable life. Whom should he send? . . . He spoke to Finlayson again. Finlayson had not seen Mr. Jameson since he was hit. Finlayson could not say if Mr. Jameson were alive or dead. Finlayson had obtained his information, come straight back with it. Finlayson, too, was in the right. . . . And the battery-commander thought: “Which is worse? To face danger oneself or send others into it? There’s the very devil of a barrage on Trônes Wood, and the sunk road will be hell. Cresswell’s got a wife and eight kids. Henry’s never been in a show before.” Then he took a five-franc piece from his pocket; said “Heads Henry. Tails Cresswell”; and spun the coin in the air. § 6 The mind of Peter Jameson, emerging slowly from the dark of unconsciousness, was aware of pain. Thought followed; then sight. He was in a dug-out, lying at the foot of deep steps—atop of which light glimmered. Opposite to him, propped against the wall, sat a wounded officer—a subaltern of infantry. The subaltern, who was smoking a cigarette, said: “Hallo. Thought you were dead.” Then he shouted up the steps: “Hi, you gunner—hi.” Mucksweat’s voice answered, “Yes, sir. What is it, sir?” “Your officer isn’t dead. He’s just opened his eyes.” The huge coal-miner clambered backwards down the steps, bent over Peter; and Peter spoke to him, vaguely, as men speak in delirium: “My water-bottle. Do you understand? My water-bottle”—Mucksweat unslung his own. “No. Not yours. Mine.” Mucksweat pulled out his clasp-knife—it was impossible to unsling the bottle without moving the man—cut the straps, uncorked, put the aluminium neck to Peter’s lips. The whisky-and-water—a good tumbler-full of which splashed over his face as he drank—woke Peter to effort. He sat up; looked at his throbbing bandaged arm; asked where he was. Mucksweat explained: “You remember they chalk-heaps, sir. Well, we’re inside one of them. Bombardier said I was to wait here till he come back. That’s why I was waiting upstairs, sir.” “Who bandaged this arm of mine?” “I did, sir.” “Good lad.” Gradually, Peter’s aching brain pieced the situation together. He could just remember the scramble out of the sunken road, the hammer-clang on his helmet. “Where’s the Bombardier gone to?” “I dunno, sir. He _said_ he was agoing to do your job.”