Sec.5

It was now that the Battle of Neuve Chapelle quenched Pennybet.  Archibald Pennybet, the boy who left school, determined to conquer the world, and coolly confident of his power to mould circumstances to his own ends, was crushed like an insect beneath the heavy foot of war.  He was just put out by a high-explosive shell.  It didn’t kill him outright, but whipped forty jagged splinters into his body.  He was taken to an Advanced Dressing Station, where a chaplain, who told us about his last minutes, found him, swathed in bandages from his head to his heel.  On a stretcher that rested on trestles he was lying, conscious, though a little confused by morphia.  He saw the chaplain approaching him, and murmured, “Hallo, padre.”  So numerous were his bandages that the chaplain saw nothing of the boy who was speaking save the lazy Arab eyes and the mouth that had framed impudence for twenty years.

“Hallo, what have you been doing to yourself?” asked the chaplain.

“Oh, only trying conclusions with an H.E., padre.”  The mouth smiled at the corners.

“What about a cup of tea, now?  Could you drink it?”

“I’ll—­try, padre.”  The eyes twinkled a little.

So the chaplain brought a mug of stewed tea, and Penny, laughing weakly, said: 

“You’ll—­have to pour it down—­for me, padre.  I can’t move a muscle.  These bloody bandages—­sorry, padre—­these bandages.  O God—­”

“In pain?” gently inquired the chaplain.

“No.  Only a prisoner.  I can’t move.  Pour the tea down.”

He gulped a little of the drink, and, dropping the heavily-fringed eyelids, so that he appeared to be asleep, muttered: 

“I suppose—­I haven’t a dog’s chance.  Find out if—­I’m done for.  Find out for me, please.”

“I asked the doctor before I came to you, old chap.”

On hearing this, Penny opened and shut his eyes, and remained so long just breathing that the chaplain wondered if he had lost consciousness.  But the eyes unclosed again, and the lips asked: 

“Aren’t you going to tell me, padre?”

“Yes, I—­you won’t be a prisoner much longer, old chap.”

Not a word said Penny, but stared in wonder at his informant.  It was clear that he wanted to live, and to mould the world to his will.  There was a long silence, and then he murmured: 

“Well, there are lots of others—­who’ve gone through it—­and lots more who’ll—­have to go.”  And he shut his eyes in weary submission.

The chaplain suggested a prayer with him, and Penny agreed in the half-jesting words:  “But you’ll—­have to do it all for me, just as you poured the tea down.  I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

And, when the prayer was over, he said with his old haughtiness: 

“You know, padre—­I was thinking—­while you prayed.  I suppose I’ve led a selfish life—­seeking my own ends—­but, by Jove, I’ve had my good time—­and am ready to pay for it—­if I must.”  His eyes flashed defiantly.  “If God puts me through it, I shan’t whine.”