e been. It numbed him to think there
was so little of stirring life, where nearly two hundred thousand men
had fought.

Then a voice arose that made him shiver. But it was only the cold wind
from the mountains whistling a dirge. Nevertheless it seemed human to
Dick. It was at once a lament and a rebuke. He edged over a little and
touched Warner.

"Is that you, Dick?" asked the Vermonter.

"What's left of me. I've one or two wounds, mere scratches, George, but
I feel all pumped out. I'm like one of those empty wine-skins that you
read about, empty, all dried up, and ready to be thrown away."

"Something of the same feeling myself, Dick. I'm empty and dried up,
too, but I'm not ready to be thrown away. Nor are you. We'll fill up in
the night. Our hearts will pump all our veins full of blood again,
and we'll be ready to go out in the morning, and try once more to get
killed."

"I don't see how you and Pennington and I, all three of us, came out of
it alive to-day."

"That question is bothering me, too, Dick. A million bullets were fired
at each of us, not to count thousands of pieces of shell, shrapnel,
canister, grape, and slashes of swords. Take any ratio of percentage
you please and something should have got us. According to every rule of
algebra, not more than one of us three should be alive now. Yet here we
are."

"Maybe your algebra is wrong?"

"Impossible. Algebra is the most exact of all sciences. It does not
admit of error. Both by algebra and by the immutable law of averages at
least two of us are dead."

"But we don't know which two."

"That's true. Nevertheless it's certain that those two, whoever they may
be, are here on borrowed time. What do your wounds amount to, Dick?"

"Nothing, I had forgotten 'em. I've lost a little blood, but what does
it amount to on a day like this, when blood is shed in rivers?"

"That's true. My own skin has been broken, but just barely, four times
by bullets. I've a notion that those bullets were coming straight for
some vital part of me, but seeing who it was, and knowing that such a
noble character ought not to be slain, they turned aside as quickly as
possible, but not so quickly that they could avoid grazing my skin."

Dick and Pennington laughed. Warner's fooling amused them and relieved
the painful tension of their minds.

"But, George," said Pennington, "suppose one of the bullets failed to
turn aside and killed you. What could we say then for you?"

"Th