Then, after nightfall, they sent a stretcher party over with
me. The German boy shook hands with me when we were starting, and
said he was afraid he wouldn't see me again, as we were pretty sure to
be shelled by the British."

"And were you, sir?"

"Rather. The first thing I knew was a bit of shrapnel through the
sleeve of my coat; I looked for the hole this morning, to see if I was
remembering rightly, and sure enough, here it is." He held up his
arm, and showed a jagged tear in his tunic. "But that's where I stop
remembering anything. I suppose I must have caught something else
then. Why is my head tied up? It was all right when they began to
carry me over."

"Ye have a lump the size of an egg low down on the back of your head,
sir," said Callaghan. "And a nasty little cut near your temple."

"H'm!" said Jim. "I wondered why it ached! Well I must have got
those from our side on the way across. I hope they got a Boche or two
as well."

"I dunno," Callaghan said. "The fellas that dumped you down said
something in their own haythin tongue. I didn't understand it, but it
sounded as if they were glad to be rid of you."

"Well, I wouldn't blame them," Jim said. "I'm not exactly a
featherweight, and it can't be much fun to be killed carrying the
enemy about, whether you're a Boche or not."

He lay for a while silently, thinking. Did they know at home yet? he
wondered anxiously. And then he suddenly realized that his fall must
have looked like certain death: that if they had heard anything it
would be that he had been killed. He turned cold at the thought.
_What_ had they heard--his father, Norah? And Wally--what did he
think? Was Wally himself alive? He might even be a prisoner. He
turned at that thought to Callaghan, his sudden move bringing a
stifled cry to his lips.

"Did they--are there any other officers of my regiment here?"

"There are not," said Callaghan. "I got the priest to look at your
badges, sir, the way he could find out if there was anny more of ye.
But there is not. Them that's here is mostly Dublins and Munsters,
with a sprinkling of Canadians. There's not an officer or man of the
Blankshires here at all, barring yourself."

"Will the Germans let us communicate with our people?"

"Communicate, is it?" said the Irishman. "Yerra, they'll not let
anyone send so much as a scratch on a post-card." He dropped his
voice. "Whisht now, sir: the priest's taking all our address