"Maybe," replied a non-com. "At anyrate take him along to the Platoon-Commander." The subaltern was frankly sympathetic. "You've had a rotten time, old man," he observed. "We'll send you back as soon as poss. There'll be a tender waiting on the other side of the canal, and you'll be in the dressing-station in half a jiffy. Risky work, yours." "I wouldn't change jobs," replied Derek, striving to raise a smile, but disastrously. It was a difficult matter to use his facial muscles when an eyebrow was missing. "Yours is a sticky business, and, by Jove! a fellow can't help admiring the infantry. They've all the hard work to do." "Collar-work, perhaps," agreed the Platoon-Commander. "But the way you fellows do stunts over Jerry's lines gives me the creeps." "Safe enough," protested Derek, "except, of course, when Fritz gets one in with his Archibalds. I'm going in for a soft job after the war." "What's that?" enquired the infantry officer. "Flying," replied the R.A.F. officer. "You mark my words, it'll be one of the safest things going. I think I'll sign on as pilot to a fat city alderman. Take him every day from Hyde Park to the Mansion House in a 240-h.p. Scout. Jolly sight healthier than skidding all over the shop in a car." "Glad you think so," rejoined the subaltern. "Well, here you are. This Corporal will guide you past our reserve trenches. Good luck!" Without mishap Derek followed the Corporal through the maze of hostile-constructed trenches and across the canal by means of a barrier of sandbags covered with "corduroyed" timber. In a sunken lane were several A.S.C. motor-vehicles which had just brought up the rations. "Here you are, sir!" exclaimed the Corporal. "This tender's just off." "Not so fast, mate," protested the driver, who was sweating profusely in his efforts to start the engine. "She's a fair mule. Come and bear a hand." Even as the obliging Corporal grasped the cranking-handle a shell burst within twenty yards of the stationary motor-vehicle. Derek ducked involuntarily as he felt the blast of the explosion and the screech of the flying fragments. He was untouched, but the luckless Corporal was lying motionless on the ground, while the driver of the tender was swearing softly as he fumbled for his first-aid dressing. "I've copped it, sir," he reported. "Got it somewhere in the thigh. It's a Blighty for me, I reckon." He paused, then, producing a knife, began to cut away his clothing with the deftness acquired by experimenting on his comrades. "Now if I could get hold of a mate to start her up," he continued ruminatingly, "I'd soon drive the pair o' us to the dressing-station." "I'll have a shot at it," volunteered Derek, and grasping the handle he swung it vigorously. The next instant he was nursing a broken arm. CHAPTER XVII Turned Down "Always said she was a mule, sir," exclaimed the driver. "Either she won't fire or else she back-fires when you don't expect it. Did you cop it, sir?"