"And where did he go after Hav--after Leehar--I mean after the hospital?" I was getting rather bewildered. "Oh, 'e went to the War right enough; but 'is digestion's that bad. They said 'e'd feel a lot better once 'is teeth was was out, but 'e ses, 'Mother,' 'e ses, 'you want a mouth full of teeth to eat this bullet beef what they give us.' Next thing was they set him to drive them machines." "What machines would those be?" I asked, groping for a little light. "Why, them motors as they use out there. 'E got meddling with one of 'em, and it was the nearest thing 'e didn't 'ave 'is 'and in a jelly; the machine didn't act proper, or somethink o' that." "And do you mean that his hand was injured?" "Not as I've 'eard on," came the prompt reply. "Well, but I thought you said your son _had_ been wounded." "Ah, yes, that was 'is toe, yer see; sent 'im down to the base 'ospital, Leeharver." "Yes, you told me that; but I heard he might be coming home. I was afraid perhaps he was disabled." "That's right. 'E's coming 'ome right enough. Ought to be 'ere in 'bout five minutes. 'Ope 'is dinner 'asn't spiled time I've stood 'ere talking to you." "Well, what _is_ the matter with him then?" I asked desperately. "Dunno there's anything partic'lar wrong with 'im. 'E's going to get married to-morrer, if that's what you mean. 'Ope it won't be the beginning of fresh troubles for 'im. But you never know what's coming next." I agreed that you never did. * * * * * [Illustration: "ELLO, WOT'S THE MATTER WITH 'IM?" "SHELL SHOCK, I RECKON."] * * * * * LETTERS FROM MACEDONIA. III. Jerry, my lad,--We have lost a dear friend, and with him, alas, the piping days of peace. No, he is not dead, or even moribund, but his friendship for us lives no longer. His name is Feodor, and he is a Bulgar comitadjus, or whatever is the singular of "comitadji," and he lived until lately in No. 2 Dugout, Hyde Park, just over the way. It is a moot point which delighted us the more, Feodor's charming manner or his exquisite trousers. These two characteristics were the more pleasing because of their perfect contrast; for whereas his manner was refined and retiring, his trousers were distinctly aggressive in their flaunting shameless redness. Feodor's appearances were at first spasmodic. This was only natural, seeing that he had not yet instilled into us his own attractive habit of _laisser aller_ and _laisser faire_, and that his red trousers offered such a beautiful mark.