ce tent. But something further
was necessary to their comfort.

"Draper," said Barry to the chaplain in charge of the tent, "you see
these men? They have had nothing to eat since last night. They have
fought a battle, been wounded, and walked out some five miles or so,
since then. It's eight o'clock now. What about it?"

"What about it?" exclaimed the chaplain. "You watch me!"

He ran to the Y. M. C. A. tent, enlisted the secretary's aid and in
twenty minutes they together had transported to the chaplain service
tent coffee and cocoa urns, and with an organised band of assistants
were supplying the wounded with warming and comforting nourishment.
Never had those splendid services more quickly and effectively justified
their place in the army.

With the wounded came rumours, more or less fantastic, of disaster.
Something terrible had befallen the whole Canadian line. It was
difficult to get at the truth. As with all rumours, they contradicted
each other and left the mind in a chaos of perplexity. The battalion had
run into wire, where the machine guns had found it, the battalion was
practically wiped out, it had found cover in a trench and was still
holding on, the O. C. was wounded, the O. C. was killed, and with him
every company commander.

Again and again, Barry sent men to the signals to learn the truth, but
it was found impossible to get a message through. That an overwhelming
disaster had befallen his battalion was abundantly evident from the
numbers of wounded. With his heart growing numb with pain he struggled
with his work. Gradually, he was forced to accept as true that a large
proportion of the battalion were casualties, that the O. C. was wounded,
possibly dying, that many of the officers had fallen and that the
remainder were still holding a precarious position, and fighting for
their lives.

"I shall not be moved," he had read to them last night. The promise was
being fulfilled in the men of his battalion. They could die at the
wire or in the trench, but they could not be moved. While mechanically
carrying on his work, his mind was with the fighting, dying remnant
of his comrades. The O. C. of the C. C. S. passing on his rounds found
Barry carrying on with tears blinding his eyes so that he could hardly
see the figures he was entering in his record.

"Your men are having a hell of a time, I hear," said the O. C. "I say,
boy," he added, glancing at Barry's haggard face, "let up for a while."

"I'm