es, and
he'll do his best to send word to every one at home."

"But can he depend on getting through?"

"Faith, he cannot. But 'tis the only chance we've got. The poor
man's nothing but a prisoner himself; he's watched if he goes tin
yards from the church. So I dunno, at all, will he ever manage it,
with the suspicions they have of him."

Jim sighed impatiently. He could do nothing, then, nothing to keep
the blow from falling on the two dear ones at home. He thought of
trying to bribe the German guards, and felt for his pocket-book, but
it was gone; some careful Boche had managed to relieve him of it while
he had been unconscious. And he was helpless, a log--while over in
England Norah and his father were, perhaps, already mourning him as
dead. His thoughts travelled to Billabong, where Brownie and Murty
O'Toole and the others kept the home ready for them all, working with
the love that makes nothing a toil, and planning always for the great
day that should bring them all back. He pictured the news
arriving--saw Brownie's dismayed old face, and heard her cry of
incredulous pain. And there was nothing he could do. It seemed
unbelievable that such things could be, in a sane world. But then,
the world was no longer sane; it had gone mad nearly two years before,
and he was only one of the myriad atoms caught into the swirl of its
madness.

The _cure_ came again, presently, and saw his troubled face. "You are
in pain, my son?"

"No--I'm all right if I keep quiet," Jim answered. "But it's my
people. Callaghan says you will try to let them know, Father."

"I am learning you all," said the priest, "names, regiments, and
numbers is it not? I dare not put them on paper: I have been searched
three times already, even to my shoes. But I hope that my chance will
come before long. Then I will send them to your War Office." He
beamed down on Jim so hopefully that it seemed rather likely that he
would find a private telegraph office of his own, suddenly. "Now I
will learn your name and regiment." He repeated them several times,
nodding his head.

"Yes, that is an easy one," he said. "Some of them are very terrible,
to a Frenchman; our friend here"--he looked quaintly at
Callaghan--"has a name which it twists the tongue to say. And now, my
son, I would like to examine you, since you are conscious. I am the
only doctor--a poor one, I fear. But perhaps we will find out
together that there is nothing to be