Frequently he stooped over such an one and examined the identification tag attached to the left wrist. He also kept a sharp look-out for a gold service ring which Bob had worn on the ring finger of his right hand. The four Brothers had service rings exactly alike, save for the initial engraved on each plate. These rings had been given them by the Blaises during that memorable Christmas furlough spent with Jimmy's parents. This careful scrutiny of the dead, coupled with the constant passing to and fro of stretcher-bearers, made his progress through the trench very slow. The groans of the wounded wrenched his heart. Often he stopped and held his water bottle to the lips of a pain-crazed Sammy, who moaned piteously for water. Again a stretcher-bearer would solicit his help in placing a wounded soldier gently upon a stretcher. It was during one of these labors of mercy that Jimmy stumbled upon news of Bob. Assisting a couple of first-aid men to place the bleeding wreck of an infantryman upon a stretcher, one of them looked sharply over and said: "I think we took a friend of yours back quite a while ago. A black-eyed, curly-haired chap. I saw him with you after the bombardment the other morning when we came up here to carry off the casualties. He was at the dugout afterward to get his face fixed up. The plaster was still on it when we took him back this morning." "That's Bob! What happened to him?" Jimmy fairly shouted his question. "Knocked out by a piece of shell. It grazed his scalp and put him to sleep. Nothing very serious. Come along with us and you can see him. We'll fix it for you," was the kindly offer. "You're all to the mustard," Jimmy responded gratefully. "Will I go along? Well, you bet." Trotting along behind the stretcher, Jimmy was soon in the communication trench. A short walk brought him to a first-aid dugout. It was full of cots, on which lay wounded soldiers, many of whom would soon be on the way to a hospital back of the lines. "There's your man." Pointing to a cot, the good-natured stretcher-bearer immediately turned to attend to his work. Jimmy, however, did not need direction. He had already spied Bob. "Hello, Blazes," greeted a faint but cheerful voice, as Jimmy reached the cot. Very white, his head bandaged, Bob's grin was still in evidence. Tears again rushed to Jimmy's eyes as he grabbed the hand Bob stretched out to him. "I've been hunting you ever since the guns quit," he said brokenly. "Are you hurt any place besides your head?" "Nope. A piece of shell barked my venerable cocoanut. The rainmaker had to put a few stitches in it. It's all right now. I'm going to dig out of here first chance I get. I'll be back in the nice safe fire trench before night. Just watch my speed. Maybe I'm not tickled to see you, you blazing Blazes! What about Roger, Iggy and Schnitz?" Bob's voice rose in worried alarm. "Roger is O. K. Iggy got his wrist gashed by a bit of shell. Schnitz----" Jimmy gulped. "Gone West?"