‘Look me in the face, man,’ I said.  ‘Do you remember me now?’

He did as he was bid.

‘Sirr, I mind of you.’

‘Have you nothing more to say?’

He cleared his throat.  ‘Sirr, I did not ken I was hittin’ an officer.’

’Of course you didn’t.  You did perfectly right, and if the war was over and we were both free men, I would give you a chance of knocking me down here and now.  That’s got to wait.  When you saw me last I was serving my country, though you didn’t know it.  We’re serving together now, and you must get your revenge out of the Boche.  I’m going to make you my servant, for you and I have a pretty close bond between us.  What do you say to that?’

This time he looked me full in the face.  His troubled eye appraised me and was satisfied.  ‘I’m proud to be servant to ye, sirr,’ he said.  Then out of his chest came a strangled chuckle, and he forgot his discipline.  ‘Losh, but ye’re the great lad!’ He recovered himself promptly, saluted, and marched off.

* * * * *

The second episode befell during our brief rest after the Polygon Wood, when I had ridden down the line one afternoon to see a friend in the Heavy Artillery.  I was returning in the drizzle of evening, clanking along the greasy path between the sad poplars, when I struck a Labour company repairing the ravages of a Boche strafe that morning.  I wasn’t very certain of my road and asked one of the workers.  He straightened himself and saluted, and I saw beneath a disreputable cap the features of the man who had been with me in the Coolin crevice.

I spoke a word to his sergeant, who fell him out, and he walked a bit of the way with me.

‘Great Scot, Wake, what brought you here?’ I asked.

‘Same thing as brought you.  This rotten war.’

I had dismounted and was walking beside him, and I noticed that his lean face had lost its pallor and that his eyes were less hot than they used to be.

‘You seem to thrive on it,’ I said, for I did not know what to say.  A sudden shyness possessed me.  Wake must have gone through some violent cyclones of feeling before it came to this.  He saw what I was thinking and laughed in his sharp, ironical way.

’Don’t flatter yourself you’ve made a convert.  I think as I always thought.  But I came to the conclusion that since the fates had made me a Government servant I might as well do my work somewhere less cushioned than a chair in the Home Office . . .  Oh, no, it wasn’t a matter of principle.  One kind of work’s as good as another, and I’m a better clerk than a navvy.  With me it was self-indulgence:  I wanted fresh air and exercise.’

I looked at him—­mud to the waist, and his hands all blistered and cut with unaccustomed labour.  I could realize what his associates must mean to him, and how he would relish the rough tonguing of non-coms.

‘You’re a confounded humbug,’ I said.  ’Why on earth didn’t you go into an O.T.C. and come out with a commission?  They’re easy enough to get.’