All but Private Smithlord.  Hastily borrowing the Colonel’s horse, he urged the gallant animal up the trench and away over the top.  And then began a race such as had never been seen at Epsom or Melton Mowbray.

“Gad,” said a sporting subaltern, who in peace days had frequently entered for a Derby sweepstake at the National Liberal Club, “the beggar can ride—­what?”

An answering cheer rang out from all ranks.

Over wire entanglements and across shell holes dashed Private Smithlord, firing rapidly with his revolver all the while.  Nearer to the ill-fated officer he drew, and then suddenly he was in the midst of the enemy.  Lashing out right and left, he fought his way to the man he had come to rescue, pulled him up behind him and, amidst a hurricane of bullets, charged back to the British lines.  Nor did he pause till he arrived at the Colonel’s dug-out.

“I have brought him back, sir,” he said, and fainted.  When he awoke it was to find himself in the Xth bed of the Yth Base Hospital.

And who is it in the next bed?  It is the officer whom he rescued.  Do we recognize him?  Alas, no.  Although unwounded by the enemy, the exposure of that terrible day had brought on a severe attack of mumps.  We cannot recognize him.  But the nurse assures us that it is our old friend, Major Murgatroyd.

“A visitor to see you,” said the nurse, coming in and waking Private Smithlord up.

“Can’t you say I’m out?” said Smithlord, expecting it was another foreign decoration and wondering what language he would have to speak this time.

“It’s an English Colonel,” said the nurse.

Smithlord saluted and begged the nurse to show him up at once.  In another minute Colonel Blowhard had entered.

“I want to thank you,” said the Colonel, “for so gallantly rescuing an old friend of mine—­Major Murgatroyd, belonging to the Nth Battalion Blankshires, but now attached to the Qth.”

Smithlord could hardly repress a start.  In the excitement of the moment he had not recognized the features of the man he had saved.  It was his old rival.

“It is curious,” went on the Colonel, “that in features you resemble another old friend of mine, Lord Smith.”

“My name is Smithlord, sir.”

“Ah!  Any relation?”

“None,” said Smithlord, crossing his thumbs under the bedclothes.

“Do you mind ringing the bell?” he went on, feeling that at all costs he must turn the conversation.  “I think it is time for my medicine.”

In answer to the Colonel’s ring a nurse appeared.

“Nurse Brown has just gone out,” she said.  “Can I do anything for you?”

“Good Heavens!  Rosamund!” cried the Colonel.

“Yes, father, it is I,” she replied simply.  “I have come to France to find the man I love.”

“Murgatroyd?” said the Colonel.  “But this gallant fellow was the man who—­By the way, let me introduce you.  Private Smithlord, my daughter, Rosamund.”