warrior used to spend much time washing it on the eve of a fight.  The dog would ride stretched across its master’s feet on the front of the wagon; and upon the field, if the major was capable of the sense of fear—­which-I doubt—­it was exercised solely for his horses and dog.  When away from these he was always getting to the front.  The only provision he made against any possible danger was to fill his pocket with silver five-franc pieces.  A man didn’t know, he said, when he might be taken prisoner by those “thaves” of Prussians, and he’d better have his money with him till he could get his remittances from across the Channel.  He had enough of living upon next to nothing—­which was horse-flesh—­and he didn’t want to live on nothing among the Germans.  Those five-franc pieces, however, he always put to the drollest uses.  He would find his way in among the artillerymen, and, pointing to a given spot, he would tell them in the worst imaginable French to throw a shell in there:  “Ploo haut, ploo haut, mon bong ami:  aim at the chimney, the chimney.”  Then he would step aside, with hands in his pockets, and watch results.  If it was a good shot, he would give the gunner a five-franc piece.  Thus he would pass along the line until he had exhausted the money with which he had fortified himself against starvation among the Prussians.  And this was all for pure love of fighting, for the major saw so much of the French officers’ incompetency that he soon had precious little sympathy for their cause.

At the second assault on Bourget, O’Flynn grew tired of waiting for the attack, and, what is more, terribly hungry.  “I’ve lived long enough on horse-mate,” exclaimed the major, “especially when I’ve none of it at all!” So he unhitched one of his black horses from the ambulance-wagon, and, taking a saddle from an orderly, tore off his brassard and other ambulance insignia, threw away his cap, so as not to compromise us, and rode bareheaded down to the very frontest of the front.  The advance were lying crouched down in the rifle-pits, awaiting the signal to storm the village.  Motioning to the amazed soldiery, he cried, still in his horrible French, “Now or never! Voila Bourget!  Follow me!  See, there’s Bourget.  Sooivez moi!” All this to the rattle of German musketry.  Seeing that he got no response in one place, he rode madly to the other rifle-pits and repeated the invitation, the officers shouting to him as he passed that he was riding into certain death, and conjuring him to save himself.  But the major could not or would not understand them.  Finally, some officers ran out, and, taking him forcibly from his horse, led him away.