During the first few weeks after his arrival in France Captain Shipp had no time whatever for affairs of his own, but a day came finally when he took a train for a certain base close up behind an American sector, intending there to more definitely locate Dimples’s whereabouts and to walk in upon him unannounced. It would be a memorable reunion; he could hear now the big fellow’s shout of welcome. That genial behemoth would have a tale to unfold, and they would talk steadily until Shipp’s leave was up. But bad news was waiting at the base—news that sent the captain hurrying from first one hospital to another. “Dalrymple? Oh yes, he’s here,” an orderly informed the distracted visitor. “Is he— May I see him?” A small, hollow-eyed man with a red triangle upon his sleeve rose from a chair and approached to inquire: “Are you, by any chance, Captain Shipp?” “I am.” “Dimples has often spoken of you. He has been expecting you for weeks. I’m just going in.” “You are Doctor Peters—Pete?” The Y secretary nodded. “What ails him? I heard he was wounded—” “Yes. His leg. It’s very serious. I come every day.” The speaker led the way, and Shipp followed down a long hall redolent of sickly drug smells, past clean white operating-rooms peopled with silent-moving figures, past doors through which the captain glimpsed dwindling rows of beds and occasional sights that caused his face to set. In that hushed half-whisper assumed by hospital visitors, he inquired: “How did it happen?” “There was a raid—a heavy barrage and considerable gas—and it caught him while he was up with supplies for the men. He began helping the wounded out, of course. It was a nasty affair—our men were new, you see, and it was pretty trying for green troops. They said, later, that he helped to steady them quite as much as did their officers.” “I can believe that. He’s a man to tie to.” “Yes, yes. We all felt that, the very first day he came. Why, he was an inspiration to the men! He was mother, brother, pal, servant to the best and to the worst of them. Always laughing, singing—There! Listen!” The Reverend Doctor Peters paused inside the entrance to a ward, and Shipp heard a familiar voice raised in quavering song: “By the star-shell’s light, I see you; I see you. If you want to see your father in the Fatherland, Keep your head down, Fritzie boy.” “Why”—Shipp uttered a choking cry—“he’s out of his head!” “Oh yes; he has been that way ever since they amputated.” “‘Amp—’ Good God!” Shipp groped blindly for support; briefly he covered his eyes. Then, like a man in a trance, he followed down the aisle until he stood, white-lipped and trembling, at the foot of Dalrymple’s bed. It was difficult to recognize Dimples in this pallid, shrunken person with the dark, roving eyes and babbling tongue. The voice alone was unchanged; it was husky, faint as if from long, long use, but it was brave and confident; it ran on ceaselessly: