“I guess so.” “Brighton is a fine school. It was my prep. school, too. I liked it immensely. Good teachers, good courses, fine halls, splendid library, superb athletic field.” “I’m awfully glad to know you went there, Captain. A good many of our fellows are over here, or were in the service somewhere. There’s Herb Whitcomb--he’s up in Flanders, or was--and Roy Flynn, invalided home, I believe. Some of the fellows are with the flying force--two of my class, Jimmy Hill and Dick Mann. Three of the older fellows, two classes ahead of me, went into the navy. Ted Wainwright and Jack Harris did, too, and are on a submarine. Old Brighton did its share!” “Yes, and I heard of another from the school; he’s a Red Cross ambulance driver; forget his name now. Only a youngster, but doing some great work. A yarn went around our camp about his landing on a couple of German spies and killing one of them. They said the boy had his own sporting rifle. Must be some plucky kid! Know him?” “Perhaps I do,” evaded Clem. “Well, what I wanted to say is this: We go into action in the morning. The advance will be in formation by platoons. The units will keep together at first, but what will happen later, how much we shall become separated, no one can tell. I am going to keep an eye on you. If anything happens I’ll do all in my power And I’m going to ask you, as an old Brighton boy, to do the same for me. Somehow, you know I feel as though it might be--that is, you see, there will be hard fighting and a great number of casualties and we must all do our best. We’ve got to make good and we shall. But some of us--I’m afraid a good many of us--won’t come out of it--won’t live to see the result. Here’s my card, Stapley--my home address. My wife would like to know if--you understand.” “Yes, I understand, Captain. You may trust me.” “Thank you, Stapley. Hope you get along well at old Brighton when you get back. Good luck! Taps will sound in about half an hour. Sorry you didn’t find those spies. They may turn up yet.” The young corporal left the spot and went to where his own platoon was bivouacked. The men, officers and all, slept scattered on the ground, to avoid casualties from stray shells. Each man had a blanket and poncho and though the temperature was low for June, the nights being chilly, it ideal camping weather for men long hardened to it. Some of the toughest fellows had no more than thrown a corner of the blanket across their shoulders, sleeping in their clothes and removing only their shoes. It was the order to do this, as marching feet need an airing and, better, a dabble in cool water. A little stream ran near by and one might safely wager, where it emptied into the Marne, the water that night ran black with the soil of France.