ting to real business with the murderous
blade), "very--very--careful...." But none of us were ever near enough
by that time to hear what would happen if we weren't (or even if he
wasn't).

And then those strange nights in the trenches, when he and I used to be
on duty together! I would be waiting in our luxurious, brightly-lit
gin-palace of a dug-out for him to join me at our midnight lunch. He'd
come in at last, clad in his fleece lining, the only survivor of his
extensive collection of overcoats, its absence of collar giving him a
peculiarly clerical look. He'd sit down to his cocoa, but hardly be
started on the day before yesterday's newspaper (just arrived with the
rations) before the private bombardment would begin. I would spring to
attention; he would go on reading. "Hush!" I'd say. (Why "Hush!" I don't
know.) "What's all that for?" "Me," he'd say, turning to the personal
column. And then I'd know that, seizing the opportunity of being
unobserved, he'd been out for nocturnal stroll with a handful of bombs,
seeking a little innocent pleasure. The gentlemen opposite, not being
cricketers themselves or knowing anything about the slow bowler, had, as
usual, mistaken him for a trench mortar and were making a belated reply.

Only his servant accompanied him on these jaunts. He was a nice quiet
villain, whose lust for adventure had, I always imagine, been long ago
satisfied by a dozen or so gentle burglaries in his civilian past. He
didn't want to kill people; his job in life was to keep his master alive
and well fed. So when the latter went out bombing he thought he might as
well go out with him, and occupy himself picking turnips for to-morrow's
stew.

When the Anarchist wasn't distributing bombs he was collecting bullets.
Being untidy by nature, he didn't particularly care where they hit him,
provided they didn't damage his pipe. That was all he cared about, his
lyddite and his tobacco. I often wonder how it was he didn't get the two
habits of his life mixed up--fill a pipe with H.E., light it and finish
off that way. But he didn't; he has just gone on collecting lead,
letting it accumulate about his person until it got too heavy to be
convenient and then resorting to the nearest hospital to have it
removed. I hear he's there now, the result, I gather, of a bit of a
show. It was his servant who was walking about that unhealthy field at
that imprudent time and found him. One would like to paint a romantic
picture