“Do you not know, my friend, that every minute is of importance in this national crisis? If I could get you to see the question of transport steadily, and to see it whole, I feel convinced that you would not be standing there lighting your pipe when perhaps this half-hour's delay in the delivery of your goods may mean the death of one of your comrades at the front.” The man, who was wizened, weathered, and old, with but few teeth, looked up at him from above the curved hands with which he was coaxing the flame of a match into the bowl of his pipe. His brow was wrinkled, and moisture stood at the comers of his eyes. “I assure you,” went on Mr. Lavender, “that we have none of us the right in these days to delay for a single minute the delivery of anything—not even of speeches. When I am tempted to do so, I think of our sons and brothers in the trenches, and how every shell and every word saves their lives, and I deliver——” The old man, who had finished lighting his pipe, took a long pull at it, and said hoarsely: “Go on!” “I will,” said Mr. Lavender, “for I perceive that I can effect a revolution in your outlook, so that instead of wasting the country's time by leaning against that wheel you will drive on zealously and help to win the war.” The old man looked at him, and one side of his face became drawn up in a smile, which seemed to Mr. Lavender so horrible that he said: “Why do you look at me like that?” “Cawn't 'elp it,” said the man. “What makes you,” continued Mr. Lavender, “pause here with your job half finished? It is not the hill which keeps you back, for you are at the top, and your horses seem rested.” “Yes,” said the old man, with another contortion of his face, “they're rested—leastways, one of 'em.” “Then what delays you—if not that British sluggishness which we in public life find such a terrible handicap to our efforts in conducting the war?” “Ah!” said the old man. “But out of one you don't make two, guv'nor. Git on the offside and you'll see it a bit steadier and a bit 'oler than you 'ave 'itherto.” Struck by his words, which were accompanied by a painful puckering of the checks, Mr. Lavender moved round the van looking for some defect in its machinery, and suddenly became aware that the off horse was lying on the ground, with the traces cut. It lay on its side, and did not move. “Oh!” cried Mr. Lavender; “oh!” And going up to the horse's head he knelt down. The animal's eye was glazing. “Oh!” he cried again, “poor horse! Don't die!” And tears dropped out of his eyes on to the horse's cheek. The eye seemed to give him a look, and became quite glazed. “Dead!” said Mr Lavender in an awed whisper. “This is horrible! What a thin horse—nothing but bones!” And his gaze haunted the ridge and furrow of the horse's carcase, while the living horse looked round and down at its dead fellow, from whose hollow face a ragged forelock drooped in the dust.