s and twos. They ducked, then--swoop--again the major
was over them, and again they forgot. Up went their rifles, and spatter,
spatter, the bullets went singing upward.

It was about an hour after that we heard a voice cry down to us: "Cheer up,
boys, all's well." There, overhead, was the Mad Major in his plane. Elusive
as was the elusive Pimpernel, he flitted back of the lines to the
plane-base.

"Who is he?" We crowded round the English Tommies when all was quiet.

"The Mad Major, Canuck," they answered. "The Mad Major."

"Yes, but--"

"Never 'eard of 'im, 'ave yer?" It was a sergeant who spoke, and we closed
round, thinking to hear a tale.

"'E comes round 'ere every evenin', 'e does. 'E 'as no fear, that chap, 'e
'asn't. Does it to cheer us up. Didn't yer 'ear 'im as 'e went? 'E 'arries
them, 'e does, 'arries them proper. Down 'e'll go, up 'e'll go, and ne'er a
bullet within singing distance of 'im. 'E's steeped in elusion!" The
sergeant finished, proud of having found a phrase, no matter what might be
its true meaning, that illustrated what he wished to convey.

The Mad Major certainly appeared immune from all of the enemy's fire.

The sergeant went on. He, himself, had been with the Imperial forces since
August, 1914. He had fought through the Aisne, the Marne, and the awful
retreat from Mons.

'Twas at Mons, he told us, that the Mad Major earned his sobriquet, and
first showed his daring. During those awful black days when slowly, slowly
and horribly, French and British and Belgians fought a backward fight, day
after day and hour after hour, losing now a yard, now a mile, but always
going back--then it was that with the dreadful weight of superior
numbers--maybe twenty to one--the Germans had a chance to win. Then it was
they lost, and lost for all time.

All through this rearguard action there was the Mad Major. Mounted on his
airy steed, he flitted above the clouds, below the clouds. Sometimes
swallowed in the smoke of the enemy's big guns; sometimes diving to avoid a
shell; sometimes staggering as though wounded, but always righting himself.
There would be the Mad Major each day, over the rearguard troops, seeming
to shelter them. He would harry the German line; he would drop a bomb, flit
back, and with a brave "We've got them, boys," cheer the sinking spirits of
the wearied foot soldiers.

The Mad Major was a wonder. Every part of the line he visited, and was
known the length and breadth of the Al