A man in khaki was bending over him--a man whom he recognised as a
civilian doctor he'd known at home--a man, moreover, who knew Molly.

"Do you know me, old chap?"

"Of course," answered the man. "What's all the trouble?"

The doctor bit his lip, and the man noticed his hand clench hard. Then
there started a low-voiced conversation, a conversation to which he
listened attentively--his hearing seemed abnormally acute.

"Has he spoken since he's been in, sister?"

"No--only those dreadful moans. The whole of his face--absolutely
hopeless--spinal cord."

The man lying motionless caught the disjointed words. What did they
mean? They were mad--insane. Dying? He--Billy Saunders! What about
Molly--his Molly? What about. . . . Gentle fingers once again touched
his head, and, looking up, he saw the doctor's eyes fixed on his.

"They're shelling the hospital, dear old man; we've got to get----
Great Scott, look out!"

Like the moan of a giant insect, the shrill whine came through the air,
rising to an overwhelming scream. There was a deafening crash--a great
hole was torn in the wall just by the window with the jagged pane, and
the room filled with stifling black fumes. A sudden agonising stab,
and the man, looking up, saw Molly in front of him. She was standing
in the acrid smoke--beckoning.

"I'm coming, dear, I'm coming!" he cried; "it's good of you to have
waited, girl of mine--so good."

* * * * * *

"Are you hurt, sister?" The doctor, who had been crouching by the bed,
stood up.

"Not touched, thank you." She was white and shaking. "Did you hear
the bits whizzing through the room?"

"I did," remarked the doctor grimly, holding out an arm from which the
blood already dripped. "And I felt one of them too. But there's no
time to lose--I don't know what to do about him, poor old chap."

He turned once again to the bed, and even as he turned he knew that the
decision had been made for him: and he thanked the Maker. Billy
Saunders had also felt a bit--a jagged bit--through the heart.

VII

BENDIGO JONES--HIS TREE

My story--such as it is--concerns a camouflage tree and Bendigo Jones:
both of which--or whom--will require a little more introduction. That
Bendigo would indignantly repudiate any such necessity, I am fully
aware; nevertheless, even at the risk of offending him, I propose to
outline briefly his claims to greatness, before embarking on th