From down the table came a quick murmur of voices.  I saw more than one glance halt at the crutch on the back of the soldier’s chair.

“Thank you.  I’d really like to tell about this man.  It’s interesting, psychologically to me,” he went on, smiling contentedly.  He is a lovable chap, my cousin Robert Thornton.  “The lad whom I speak of, a French-Canadian from Quebec Province, was my servant, my batman, as the Indian army called them and as we refer to them often now.  He was so brainless that I just missed firing him the first day I had him.  But John Dudley, my brother-in-law and lieutenant, wanted me to give him a chance, and also there was something in his manner when I gave him orders which attracted me.  He appeared to have a pleasure in serving, and an ideal of duty.  Dudley had used him as a guide, and the man had a dog-like devotion to ‘the lieutenant’ which counted with me.  Also he didn’t talk.  I think he knew only four words.  I flung orders at him and there would be first a shock of excitement, then a second of tense anxiety, then a radiant smile and the four words:  ’C’est bien, Mon Capitaine.’  I was captain then.”

At that point I dropped my knife and fork and stared at my cousin.  He went on.

“‘C’est bien, Mon Capitaine.’  That was the slogan.  And when the process was accomplished, off he would trot, eager to do my will.  He was powerful and well-built, but he had the oddest manner of locomotion ever I saw, a trot like—­like a Ford car.  I discovered pretty soon that the poor wretch was a born coward.  I’ve seen him start at the distant sound of guns long before we got near the front, and he was nervous at going out alone at night about the camp.  The men ragged him, but he was such a friendly rascal and so willing to take over others’ work that he got along with a fraction of the persecution most of his sort would have had.  I wondered sometimes what would happen to the poor little devil when actual fighting came.  Would it be ‘C’est bien, Mon Capitaine,’ at the order to go over the top, or would the terrible force of fear be too much for him and land him at last with his back to a wall and a firing squad in front—­a deserter?  Meantime he improved and I got dependent on his radiant good will.  Being John Dudley’s brother-in-law sanctified me with him, and nothing was too much trouble if I’d give him a chance sometimes to clean John’s boots.  I have a man now who shows no ecstacy at being ordered to do my jobs, and I don’t like him.

“We were moved up towards the front, and, though Mr. Winston Churchill has made a row about the O.S.—­the officers’ servants who are removed from the firing line, I know that a large proportion of them do their share in the trenches.  I saw to it that mine did.