When he returned to consciousness it seemed to him as though he saw a number of ghostly faces around him. He had a sort of feeling that he was dead, and that those faces belonged to the spirit world; but in a few seconds they became clearer. "That's better, Tom, that's better! You are all right. You did it, lad! You did it!" "Stand back there, and give him air. Heavens! There hasn't been a braver thing done by any man in the Army!" He heard all this, but not clearly. They seemed to be stray sentences, uttered by many voices. But it didn't matter; only one thing mattered. Had he done what he had set out to do? "Have you got it?" he gasped. "Got it! I should think we have." It was Major Blundell who spoke. "It's all right, Pollard, you've done the trick." "Have I, sir?" said Tom. "I--I feel very strange." "You will soon get over it, you are only pumped!" "Ay," laughed another, and the voice was as sweet music to Tom, "I've seen thee worse nor this i' the Brunford Cup Tie match." "That thee, Nick?" he said, lapsing into the Brunford vernacular, which he had been trying to correct lately. "Ay, Tom, it's me; tha'st done a good neet's work to-neet." Tom's brain was clearer now; he knew where he was; knew, too, that he had succeeded. Something was still hammering at his temples, and his head was aching terribly, but he didn't mind; his heart was light. "You have done well, Pollard." It was Major Blundell who spoke. "Was what I got any good, sir?" "Good! I should think it was." "And Captain Waterman, have you got him?" "That's all right, Pollard, he's safe enough," replied the Major. "Thank you, sir," said Tom, "I don't care now." What happened after that Tom didn't remember. He had a confused idea that he was carried down a long line of trenches, and that he heard cheering words during his journey. But nothing was plain to him, except a burning sensation in his left arm and in his right shoulder; for the rest he was faint, sick, and weary. "You are feeling better now, are you not, Pollard?" It was the doctor who spoke. "Yes, sir, I am feeling all right," replied Tom; "there is not much the matter with me, is there?" "You are simply a miracle," replied the doctor, "only a couple of flesh wounds, that's all. You have lost a great deal of blood, of course, but you will soon be as fit as a fiddle again. I wonder that a hundred bullets did not go through you!" "They came mighty near," was Tom's reply. "You must be removed from here at once," said the doctor, "this region's too unhealthy for you." An hour later Tom found himself away from the screech of shells. As he reflected afterwards, it seemed to him a miracle that he had not been killed. No sooner had he mastered the German and seized the paper than bullets showered upon him like rain, and yet beyond these two slight flesh wounds he was wholly untouched. It was true he was very stiff and sore, but he knew that he would soon be as well as ever.