territory at the moment: a
mule, whose four hoofs stuck stiffly out of a shell hole--pointing at
him, motionless. With a shudder he moved on along the duck-walk.
After all he was but a kid, and he was almighty tired.

For three days he seemed to have been on the run without closing his
eyes. First the battalion had gone over the top; then they had worked
like slaves consolidating what they'd won; afterwards he had been sent
for because of his knowledge of French and German to go back to
Divisional Head-quarters; and then he had come back to find the
battalion had moved. And any who may have tried walking five or six
miles by night in heavy rain to an unknown destination along some of
the roads east of Albert, will bear out that it is a wearisome
performance. When to these facts is added the further information that
the age of the boy was only eighteen, it will be conceded that the
breaking-point was not far off.

Now I have emphasised the physical condition of the Kid, as he was
known to all and sundry, because I think it may have a bearing on the
story I am going to relate. I am no expert in "ologies" and other
things dealing with so-called spiritualistic revelations. I might even
say, in fact, that I am profoundly sceptical of them all, though to say
so may reveal my abysmal ignorance. So be it; my thumbs are crossed.
This is not a controversial treatise on spiritualism, and all that
appertains thereto. One thing, however, I will say--in my ignorance,
of course. Until some of the great thinkers of the world have beaten
down the jungle of facts beyond our ken, and made a track--be it never
so narrow--free from knaves and charlatans, it is ill-advised for Mrs.
Smith or Lady de Smythe to believe that Signer Macaroni--_ne_
Jones--will reveal to them the secrets of the infinite for two pounds.
He may; on the other hand, he may not. That the secrets are there, who
but a fool can doubt; it is only Signer Macaroni's power of
disinterested revelation that causes my unworthy scepticism.

And so let us come back to the Kid, and the strange thing that happened
in a recently captured German dug-out on the night of which I have been
writing. It was just as he had decided--rain or no rain--to lie down
and sleep in the mud and filth--anywhere, anything, as long as he could
sleep--that suddenly out of the darkness ahead he heard the Adjutant's
voice, and knew that he had found the battalion. With almost a sob of
thankf