and other atrocities."

"Good," he said. "The boys are simply frothing blood."

He went on; and that was the last time I saw Jimmy O'Shea alive.

Ye Gods! My Lord ----, some day I'll tell you of your son's end. You
kicked him out--perhaps rightly; though mercy was never your strong
point. But if any of the belted ancestors in that gallery of yours did
as much for England as Jimmy did, or died as gloriously as Jimmy died,
well, you should be a proud man, prouder even than you are. He sent
the boys over raving mad with blood, and they struck Bavarians--and
good Bavarians: men who could fight, and men who did fight. They were
at it, teeth, feet, and steel for ten minutes: primitive, lustful
fighting; and then the Bavarians broke; with the boys after them,
stabbing and cursing. One or two were left, though they wouldn't
surrender, more power to them. A Bavarian officer, in fact, concluded
the eventful career of Sapper O'Toole, the company rum-swallowing
champion. True he brained that officer with a coil of barbed wire on
the end of a pick helve, even as the bullet entered his heart; but he
was a great loss to us. And it was just as we surged over their bodies
that we came to the tableau.

Jimmy lay round the traverse. We found him at the bottom when we'd
sorted out the litter. There were six of them he'd done in in all; you
could trace what had happened. They'd been lining the trench, and he'd
taken them in order. It was in the fifth that his bayonet stuck. He
couldn't get it out. It was still there. At that moment, evidently,
Number Six had come at him, and he'd had no time. So they closed; and,
my God! they'd fought.

I think they both must have gone out about the same time. Jimmy was
shot through the heart by the Bavarian's revolver; the Bavarian's
throat was cut with Jimmy's clasp knife.

No bad end, my lord; what say you? I will show you the exact spot some
day, and your son's grave near by. I'd have his picture in the gallery
if I were you. . . . I've got a snapshot I can let you have, taken in
France. But I treasure it; and unless you hang it in the place of
honour, amongst the Raeburns--I keep it. Mark you, he deserves that
place of honour. . . .

* * * * * *

"Captain Johnson's compliments, sir, and are you coming over to have a
liqueur at his table?"

The waiter's voice cut in on my thoughts. The band was hitting a
ragtime stunt; London had dined