e little incident I can tell you,
though. We'd marched many miles through the night over appalling ground
under scattered shell-fire, and were only in our place of attack half an
hour before the advance started up the ridge. That night march is a
story in itself, but that's not what I'm going to tell you now. We drew
close to one of the blockhouses, and the sound of our cheering must have
been heard by the Germans inside those concrete walls. The barrage had
just passed, and its line of fire, volcanic in its fury, went travelling
ahead. Suddenly out of the blockhouse a dozen men or so came running,
and we shortened our bayonets. From the centre of the group a voice
shouted out in English: 'I'm a Warwickshire man, don't shoot! I'm an
Englishman!' The man who called had his hands up in sign of surrender,
like the German soldiers.

"'It's a spy!' said one of our men. 'Kill the blighter!'

"The voice again rang out: 'I'm English!'

"And he was English, too. It was a man of a Warwickshire regiment, who
had been captured on patrol some days before. The Germans had taken him
into their blockhouse--and because of our gun-fire they could not get
out of it--and kept him there. He was well treated, and his captors
shared their food with him, but the awful moment came for him when the
drum-fire passed, and he knew that unless he held his hands high he
would be killed by our own troops."

"How awful!" shivered Dona.

"Tell us some more tales about the war," begged Marjorie.

"I might have been killed one evening," said Leonard, "if it hadn't been
for a friend. We were carrying dispatches, and fell into an ambush. I
owe it to Winkles that I'm here to-day. He fought like a demon. I never
saw such a fellow!"

"Who's Winkles?"

"Oh, an awfully good chap, and so humorous! I've never once seen him
down. I've got his photo somewhere, I believe. I took a snapshot of him
once."

"Oh, do show it to us!"

Leonard searched through his pockets, and after turning out an
assortment of letters and papers produced a small photograph for
inspection. The girls bumped their heads together in their eagerness to
look at it. It had been taken in camp, and represented the young soldier
in the act of raising a can of coffee to his lips. There was a pleased
smile on the whimsical face, and a twinkle in the dark eyes. Marjorie
caught her breath.

"Why, why!" she gasped. "It's surely Private Preston!"

"That's his name right enough. We call him