it's time we was gettin' a move on.
Mornin's comin', an' if we're spotted here, we're done for. Can ye
creep?'

Macgregor tried and let out a little yelp.

'Na, ye canna. Ye'll jist ha'e to get on ma back.'

'Wullie, gang yersel'----'

'Obey yer corporal!'

'Ye're no a corp----'

'If they dinna mak' me a corporal for this, I'll quit the service!
Onyway, I'm no gaun wi'oot ye. Same time, I canna guarantee no to
tak' ye to the German lines. But we maun risk that. Ye'll ha'e to
leave yer rifle, but keep on the dish-cover till I gi'e ye the
word. . . . Noo then! Nae hurry. I'll ha'e to creep the first
part o' the journey. Are ye ready? Weel, here's luck to the twa
o' us!'

There is no authentic description of that horrible journey save
Willie's, which is unprintable.

It was performed literally by inches. More than once Willie
collapsed, groaning, under his burden. Macgregor, racked as he
was, shed tears for his friend's sake. Time had no significance
except as a measure of suspense and torture. But Willie held on,
directed by some instinct, it seemed, over that awful
shell-fragment-studded mire, round the verges of shell-formed
craters, past dead and wounded waiting for succour--on, on, till
the very guns seemed to have grown weary, and the rain ceased, and
the air grew chillier as with dread of what the dawn should
disclose, and the blackness was diluted to grey.

'Drap the ---- dish-cover,' croaked Willie, and halted for a
minute's rest.

Then on again. But at long last Willie muttered: 'I think it's oor
trench. If I'm wrang, fareweel to Argyle Street! I'll ha'e to
risk gi'ein' them a hail in case some silly blighter lets fly in
this rotten licht. Slip doon, Mac--nae hurry--nae use hurtin'
yersel' for naething. I'll maybe ha'e to hurt ye in a
meenute. . . . N' for it!' He lifted up his voice. 'Hullo,
Glesca Hielanders!'

It seemed an age until--

'Right oh!' came a cheerful response.

'Hurray!' yelled Willie, and rose stiffly to his feet.

Then with a final effort, he gave Macgregor the 'fireman's lift,'
and staggered and stumbled, amid shots from the other side, into
safety.

XXII

NO HERO, YET HAPPY

Christina was arranging the counter for the day's business when the
postman brought her a letter in a green envelope with the imprint
'On Active Service'. Her heart leapt only to falter as her eyes
took in the unfamiliar writing. Then under the 'Certificate' on
the l