Upon regaining consciousness he found that it was night. A burning thirst gripped his throat, and increased his physical torments. Doggedly he began to crawl again, although he could hardly hold his head up clear of the mud. The contents of a water-bottle that had belonged to a dead German revived him considerably, and in spite of frequent rests his progress along the sunken lane was slowly and steadily maintained, until through sheer exhaustion he fell into a fitful sleep. With daybreak his troubles increased. The Huns begun shelling the sunken road, while the British guns also began to pound the same spot. Crawling into a crater Ferris hugged the muddy earth, expecting every minute to be blown to atoms by the bursting high explosives. It was then that he received a scalp wound and a fragment of shell in his wrist. Throughout the long-drawn day he lay in his frail shelter while the mutual "strafe" continued. At night he resumed his pilgrimage of agony and finally reached the British lines to find that his regiment had been relieved by the Downshires. "Yes," he continued, puffing contentedly at the cigarette Ralph had given him. "I'm just off to Blighty for a rest cure, then I guess I'll be back in time for the Final Push. Wouldn't miss that for worlds, and the boys are doing great things, I hear. Where are you off to, Setley? Blighty, too. You're mighty lucky to get away. Some chaps have been months out here without having a sniff of home. Got a commission, eh? Well, sir, the best of luck." Two bearers raised the stretcher and Sergeant Ferris was borne off on another stage of the journey of pain, yet happy at the thought that a guerdon awaited him--the sight of his native land. The Cross-Channel passage was accomplished in safety, thanks to the efficient escort provided by the Senior Service, and just as it was getting dark Ralph landed at Folkestone. The train from Charing Cross conveying leave-expired men had just arrived, and the double stream of troops, some with their faces Francewards, others with their backs to the Front for a few brief days, jostled on the landing-stage. "Blimey, if it ain't young Setley!" exclaimed a well-known voice. "'Ere, Aldy, where are yer?" And Ginger Anderson gripped Ralph's hand and jerked it like a pump-handle. "So they let yer off? Lucky blighter! you've got your leave to come. We've 'ad ours, worse luck." "Cheer-o!" was Alderhame's greeting. "How are things?" Briefly Ralph explained the nature of his hurried visit home. "Told you so," said Alderhame. "I knew it meant a pip on your collar. Well, the best of luck." "Judging by the number of times I've been wished that I ought to have it," rejoined Ralph. "And I believe I was born on a Friday." "Suppose we ought to salute?" said Ginger. "I believe the idea is that one salutes the King's uniform, and I haven't got it yet," replied Ralph. "You salute the uniform not the man," agreed Alderhame.