ill meet some
day again."

"Good-bye to you!" cried his new friend.

Zaidos, calling Velo, jumped into the trench and ran along its uneven
zigzags, on and on, the roar of battle sounding ever louder, until he
reached the cook house, and turning into the arm leading to the First
Aid Station, he raced into the room and reported to the doctor.

Velo was at his heels. Once more the evil in Velo's soul was crying to
him, shouting to him, "This is your day--_this is your day_!"

"I won't forget," commented Velo aloud; and Zaidos said "What?"

They buckled on their aid kits, seeing that they were supplied with
everything. They wore orderly kits now. They contained chloroform in
a case, a roll of wire gauze, a long rubber bandage, and a tin which
contained vials of hyperdermic solutions. These were only for the use
of the field surgeons whom they chanced to meet and who frequently had
to call on the Red Cross orderlies and stretcher bearers for supplies.
Then in the next compartment was the hypodermic syringe, and beside it
a flask for aromatic spirits of ammonia. There was a knife and a pair
of surgical scissors. After having dropped his scissors a dozen times
or so, Zaidos had taken the precaution to tie them to his pouch with a
long, fine string.

There was gauze, eight packets of it; four first aid packets complete,
six bandages, and two diagnosis tags and pencils. When there was time,
it was sometimes advisable to tag the wounded men. It made them get
moved quicker when the patient finally reached the operating room.

A spool of adhesive plaster was perhaps one of the most useful things
included, and there were pins and ligatures, and a small pocket lantern
which Zaidos at least had never had occasion to use.

Velo looked carefully at his own kit. He did not intend to be caught
in any carelessness or neglect of duty. He had cast aside as unsafe
the idea of skipping away. It was more dangerous than the falling
shells. He, like many another, had become calloused. On battlefields
men move with as much of a sense of security as though they were
invisible. It is not so much that they are not afraid as that they
grow into a feeling that the dreadful din, the rattle and bang and dirt
and blood, the anguish of men and horses, the distorted and ghastly
deaths, will pass them by. The whine of bullets, and the spiteful
snarl of exploding shells seems as much an incident as the tin rainfall
and the wooden thund