e great world war,
and who knows that victory will not come right away.

But Tricot had neither allies nor reserves; he was all alone, so wasted
and so exhausted that the day came when he passed almost imperceptibly
from the state of a wounded to that of a dying man.

And it was just at this moment that the pimple appeared.

Tricot had borne the greatest sufferings courageously; but he seemed to
have no strength to bear this slight addition to his woes.

"Monsieur," stammered the orderly who had charge of him, utterly
dejected, "I tell you, that pimple is the spark that makes the cup
overflow."

And in truth the cup overflowed. This misfortune was too much. Tricot
began to complain, and from that moment I felt that he was doomed.

I asked him several times a day, thinking of all his wounds: "How are
you, old fellow?" And he, thinking of nothing but the pimple, answered
always:

"Very bad, very bad! The pimple is getting bigger."

It was true. The pimple had come to a head, and I wanted to prick it.

Tricot, who had allowed us to cut into his chest without an anaesthetic,
exclaimed with tears:

"No, no more operations! I won't have any more operations."

All day long he lamented about his pimple, and the following night he
died.

"It was a bad pimple," said the orderly; "it was that which killed him."

Alas! It was not a very "bad pimple," but no doubt it killed him.

V

Mehay was nearly killed, but he did not die; so no great harm was done.

The bullet went through his helmet, and only touched the bone. The brain
is all right. So much the better.

No sooner had Mehay come to, and hiccoughed a little in memory of the
chloroform, than he began to look round with interest at all that was
happening about him.

Three days after the operation, Mehay got up. It would have been useless
to forbid this proceeding. Mehay would have disobeyed orders for the
first time in his life. We could not even think of taking away his
clothes. The brave man never lacks clothes.

Mehay accordingly got up, and his illness was a thing of the past.

Every morning, Mehay rises before day-break and seizes a broom. Rapidly
and thoroughly, he makes the ward as dean as his own heart. He never
forgets any corner, and he manages to pass the brush gently under the
beds without waking his sleeping comrades, and without disturbing those
who are in pain. Sometimes Mehay hands basins or towels, and he is as
gentle as a woman when