“And do you mean that his hand was injured?”

“Not as I’ve ’eard on,” came the prompt reply.

“Well, but I thought you said your son had been wounded.”

“Ah, yes, that was ’is toe, yer see; sent ’im down to the base ’ospital, Leeharver.”

“Yes, you told me that; but I heard he might be coming home.  I was afraid perhaps he was disabled.”

“That’s right.  ’E’s coming ’ome right enough.  Ought to be ’ere in ’bout five minutes.  ’Ope ’is dinner ’asn’t spiled time I’ve stood ’ere talking to you.”

“Well, what is the matter with him then?” I asked desperately.

“Dunno there’s anything partic’lar wrong with ’im.  ’E’s going to get married to-morrer, if that’s what you mean.  ’Ope it won’t be the beginning of fresh troubles for ’im.  But you never know what’s coming next.”

I agreed that you never did.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “ELLO, WOT’S THE MATTER WITH ’IM?”

“SHELL SHOCK, I RECKON.”]

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM MACEDONIA.

III.

Jerry, my lad,—­We have lost a dear friend, and with him, alas, the piping days of peace.  No, he is not dead, or even moribund, but his friendship for us lives no longer.  His name is Feodor, and he is a Bulgar comitadjus, or whatever is the singular of “comitadji,” and he lived until lately in No. 2 Dugout, Hyde Park, just over the way.

It is a moot point which delighted us the more, Feodor’s charming manner or his exquisite trousers.  These two characteristics were the more pleasing because of their perfect contrast; for whereas his manner was refined and retiring, his trousers were distinctly aggressive in their flaunting shameless redness.

Feodor’s appearances were at first spasmodic.  This was only natural, seeing that he had not yet instilled into us his own attractive habit of laisser aller and laisser faire, and that his red trousers offered such a beautiful mark.

He would appear suddenly, smile seraphically towards us, and then disappear before our snipers could get on to him.  At first of course we tried to pot him, but gradually our ferocity gave way to amazement and then to tolerance.  At last came a day when Feodor climbed on to his parapet and made us a pretty little speech.  We cheered him loudly, although we didn’t understand much of it.  Next day we brought down an interpreter and asked Feodor for an encore.  His second performance was even more spirited than the first, and after a graceful vote of thanks to our benefactor we asked the interpreter to oblige.

It appeared that from his boyhood Feodor had been apprenticed to an assistant piano-tuner in Varna.  Rosy days of rapid promotion followed, and the boy, completely wrapped up in his profession, soon became a deputy assistant piano-tuner.  Then followed the old, old story of vaulting ambition.