ouse they'd be all right. I tell you, boys,
'twill be the Gov'mint's own fault if we see the haythin Turks
parading the fair fields of Ireland, with their long tails held up by
the Sinn Feiners!" Callaghan relapsed into gloomy contemplation of
this awful possibility, and refused to be drawn further. Even when
Jim, desiring to be tactful, mentioned a famous Irish V.C. who had,
single-handed, slain eight Germans, he declined to show any
enthusiasm.

"Ah, what V.C.!" he said sourly. "Sure, his owld father wouldn't make
a fuss of him. 'Why didn't he do more?' says he. 'I often laid out
twenty men myself with a stick, and I coming from Macroom Fair. It is
a bad trial of Mick that he could kill only eight, and he having a
rifle and bayonet!' he says. Cock him up with a V.C.!" After which
Jim ceased to be consoling and began to exercise his worst
leg--knowing well that the sight of his torments would speedily melt
Denny's heart and make him forget the sorrows of Ireland.

The guards did not trouble them much; they kept a strict watch, which
was not difficult, as all the prisoners were partially disabled; and
then considered their duty discharged by bringing twice a day the
invariable meal of soup and bread. No one liked to speculate on what
had gone to the making of the soup; it was a pale, greasy liquid, with
strange lumps in it, and tasted as dish-water may be supposed to
taste. Jim learned to eat the sour bread by soaking it in the soup.
He had no inclination to eat, but he forced himself to swallow the
disgusting meals, so that he might keep up his strength, just as he
worked his stiff limbs and rubbed them most of the day. For there was
but one idea in Jim Linton's mind--escape.

Gradually he became able to sit up, and then to move a little,
hobbling painfully on a stick which had been part of a broken pew, and
endeavouring to take part in looking after the helpless prisoners, and
in keeping the church clean, since the guards laughed at the idea of
helping at either. Jim had seen something of the treatment given to
wounded German soldiers in England, and he writhed to think of them,
tended as though they were our own sick, while British prisoners lay
and starved in filthy holes. But the little _cure_ rebuked him.

"But what would you, my son? They are _canaille_--without breeding,
without decency, without hearts. Are we to put ourselves on that
level?"

"I suppose not--but it's a big difference, Fath