lanced. It was a toss-up whether the other
fellows would come through or not. You see, you took us at a bad time."

"How about the ambulances that weren't working?" asked Hilda. "The
square was lined with them."

"I know," responded the Colonel, "but the city was likely to be
evacuated at any hour. As a matter of fact, those ambulances were used
all night long after the bombardment began, emptying the three military
hospitals, and taking the men to the train. We sent them down to Calais.
You were most fortunate in getting through the lines at all. I shouldn't
have blamed Captain Fitzgerald if he had ordered you back to Furnes."

"Captain Fitzgerald!" exclaimed Hilda. "How did you know I was talking
with him?"

"I was there that day in Ypres," said the Colonel.

"You were in Ypres," repeated Hilda, in astonishment.

"I was there," he said; "I saw the whole thing. You came down upon our
lines as if you had fallen out of a blue moon. What were we to do? A
very charming young American lady, with a very good motor ambulance. It
was a visitation, wasn't it? If we allowed it regularly, what would
become of the fighting? Why, there are fifty volunteer organizations,
with cars and nurses, cooling their heels in Boulogne. If we let one in,
we should have to let them all come. There wouldn't be any room for
troops."

"But how about the wounded?" queried Hilda. "Where do they come in?"

"In many cases, it doesn't hurt them to lie out in the open air,"
responded the Colonel; "that was proved in the South African War. The
wounds often heal if you leave them alone in the open air. But you
people come along and stir up and joggle them. In army slang, we call
you the body snatchers."

"What you say about the wounded is absurd," replied Hilda.

"Tut, tut," chided the Colonel.

"I mean just that," returned the girl, with heat. "It is terrible to
leave men lying out who have got wounded. It is all rot to say the open
air does them good. If the wound was clean from a bullet, and the air
pure, and the soil fresh as in a new country, that would be true in some
of the cases. The wound would heal itself. But a lot of the wounds are
from jagged bits of shell, driving pieces of clothing and mud from the
trenches into the flesh. The air is septic, full of disease from the
dead men. They lie so close to the surface that a shell, anywhere near,
brings them up. Three quarters of your casualties are from disease. The
wound doesn't heal; i