Russians
crowned the heights and were driving the British back. The
reinforcements checked them, but did not turn the scale at first.

There was one gigantic Russian who stood towering above his fellows with
clubbed rifle, furiously knocking down all who came within his reach,
like Horatius or one of the other heroes of ancient Rome. At him
Corporal Thorogood sprang, grasping his rifle by the muzzle as he ran,
and whirling it on high. The Russian saw him coming. The two rifles
met with a crash, and flew into splinters. Bob dropped his weapon,
grasped his adversary by the throat, thrust him back, and bore him
headlong to the ground. This incident turned the scale. A cheer
followed. The British swept forward with such irresistible fury that
the men in front were thrust upon the foe in a mass, Bob and his enemy
being turned heels over head in the rush. A well-sustained fire
scattered the foe like chaff, and those who had been thrown down were
taken prisoners. Among them was the gigantic Russian, with the Corporal
still holding his collar tight in his iron grasp.

"Well done, my man!" said the Colonel of the regiment as he rode past
Bob.

The Colonel was a man of few words. He said no more on that occasion,
but every one knew that he would not forget the man who had so bravely
turned the tide of battle that day.

Bob, however, did not escape altogether unhurt. He had been rather
severely wounded, and afterwards had to spend a considerable time in
hospital. As his wound did not prevent him from moving about, he soon
became a valuable assistant to the surgeons and nurses in the hospital.

"Ah!" said he one night, when smoothing the pillow and attending to the
wants of a severely wounded soldier, "this comes more natural to me. It
suits me better than fighting."

"I wish you were one of the regular nurses, Corporal," said one of the
surgeons heartily; "you do everything so thoroughly, and with such a
will."

But Bob was not allowed to remain long at his peaceful work. Being a
healthy and temperate man he soon recovered, and ere long found himself
in the trenches before Sebastopol.

It was winter. One bleak, raw morning, just before daybreak, Bob
plodded down with his party through slush and mud to take his turn of
fighting before the great fortress. It was bitterly cold and dark.
Some of the men were grumbling terribly.

"Ah, then, won't you shut your 'tatie traps?" said a big Irishman, who
had won