We didn’t expect too much—in fact we didn’t expect half of what we got. We hadn’t looked forward to grilled _merlin_, roast chicken, tender lamb, Jerusalem artichokes or delicious cantaloupe, nor to Gruyère cheese served with crisp cream-wafers. In our modesty we had forgotten to expect the mellow flavoured wines which clung to the sloping sides of glass as delicate as a spider’s web, or rich Havana cigars and real Egyptian cigarettes. No, strange as it may seem to the casual reader, we hadn’t expected any of these things; we were prepared for Bologna sausage and a can of sardines, but in these we were disappointed. A whirlwind of plenty rose at Harman’s magic call, and cast us adrift upon a sea of luxury. Towards the close of this splendid repast, I took occasion to ask our benevolent host to what particular branch of the Red Cross work he was devoting his energies. "Just what you see," he answered with a laugh. "Cheering up dull dogs like Wellcombe here, as they pass upon their weary way—that’s about all." "He’s talking bally rot!" cried Jack from his end of the table, "I’ll tell you what he does, as he won’t tell you himself. He feeds the hungry and the poor; he gives all kinds of delicacies, from pickles to pheasants, to the wounded and sick soldiers in the Field Ambulances and hospitals for miles around; he carries food and drink to the wounded Tommies in the trenches and the Dressing Stations. I’ve seen him steal out upon the battlefield in a perfect hell of machine gun bullets and shrapnel—places where the devil himself wouldn’t venture or expect to get out alive—and carry back those poor shattered lads in his arms. He—" "Jack, Jack," Harman cried in protest, "for heaven’s sake have a little pity—I can’t live up to a rep’ like this!" "Don’t interrupt, please!" Jack commanded. "One word more and then I’m through. He’s been a perpetual Santa Claus to every boy at the front, and a godsend to every man in the rear—a damn good fellow and a man." He had risen to his feet and struck the table with his hand in his earnestness. "Here’s a toast for you, my comrades in arms," he cried in conclusion: "Here’s to Harman—Harman the Red Cross hero of St. Omer!" As one man we rose to our feet and drained our glasses dry. After dinner we crowded into the lounge, and Jack sat down at the piano. With nimble fingers he drew soft music from the keys. We soon discovered we were in a nest of artists, drawn together by a common tie.