still figure lying on the ground, and two men
crouching over him. "Someone 'ad a fit, I reckons," he whispered to
the man next him, an old hand at the game.

"Fit be blowed. It's a 'Un, yer fool--or was before he 'opped it.
He's dead."

"A 'Un!" Samuel gazed stupidly at the speaker, and then peered at the
motionless figure. "Wot's the sargint a-doin' of."

A low question came from the officer. "Have you killed him, Melstead?"

"I have that, sir; but I can't get my perishing bayonet out. Put your
foot on his chest, Charlie, and heave. Again, so, heave." The
sergeant sat down suddenly as the bayonet came out, and immediately
crawled to the subaltern. "There'll be another with him, sir, for a
cert." The two peered over the bank towards the German lines, while
drawn by an irresistible impulse Samuel crept towards the dead man. He
peered into the distorted face, he looked at the still twitching body,
and an uncontrollable fit of shuddering took him and gripped him. His
knees knocked together; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; and
only one coherent thought hammered at his brain.

"Lemme get away; it's awful. Gawd! it's awful. Lemme go." He was
whispering and muttering to himself, and Heaven knows what might have
happened, because there are moments when a man is not responsible for
his actions, when a large body hit him on the head, and he found
himself at the bottom of a mass of struggling, kicking men.

As a matter of fact it was merely the expected arrival of number two of
the German patrol, and he could not have selected a better place to
come to as far as Samuel was concerned. There is no better banisher of
knocking knees than a heavy kick in the ribs from a German boot, and in
an instant our friend was fighting like a tiger cat.

"Quietly, quietly, for the love of Heaven." The officer's insistent
voice reached him, and he felt for the German's mouth with his hands.
He was lying on his back, and the Hun was on top of him; but beyond
that, the only other clear remembrance of the episode he has is of a
fine and complete set of teeth nearly meeting in his hand. That was
enough; one new terrier at any rate was blooded. He don't quite know
how he killed him; in fact, it is quite on the cards that it wasn't he
who killed him at all. The fact remains that the German died; and
whether it was the sergeant, or whether it was the subaltern, or
whether it was Samuel, is immaterial. All that matter