me.

On our way he told me of such mixture of rumour and fact as he was
acquainted with. It was then that I heard the man Somers's name for the
first time. We entered the hospital, sat by the side of the man's bed,
and he told us the story of Vilboek's Farm which I have, in bald terms,
just related. Shortly afterwards I returned to the front, where the
famous shell knocked me out of the Army forever.

What has happened to Somers I don't know. He was, I learned, soon
afterwards discharged from the Army. He either died or disappeared in
the full current of English life. Perhaps he is with our armies now. It
does not matter. What matters is my memory of his nervous, sallow,
Cockney face, its earnestness, its imprint of veracity, and the damning
lucidity of his narrative.

I exacted from my young friends a promise to keep the unsavoury tale to
themselves. No good would arise from a publicity which would stain the
honour of the army. Besides, Boyce had made good. They have kept their
promise like honest gentlemen. I have never, personally, heard further
reference to the affair, and of course I have never mentioned it to
anyone.

Now, it is right for me to mention that, for many years, I lived in a
horrible state of dubiety with regard to Boyce. There is no doubt that,
after the Vilboek business, he acted in an exemplary manner; there is
no doubt that he performed the gallant deed for which he got his
mention. But what about Somers's story? I tried to disbelieve it as
incredible. That an English officer--not a nervous wisp of a man like
Somers, but a great, hulking, bull-necked gladiator--should have been
paralysed with fear by one shot coming out of a Boer farm, and thereby
demoralised and incapacitated from taking command of a handful of men;
that, instead of blowing his brains out, he should have imposed his
Mephistophelian compact upon the unhappy Somers and carried off the
knavish business successfully--I could not believe it. On the other
hand, there was the British private. I have known him all my life, God
bless him! Thank God, it is my privilege to know him now, as he lies
knocked to bits, cheerily, in our hospital. It was inconceivable that
out of sheer funk he could abandon a popular officer. And his was not
even a scratch crowd, but a hard-bitten regiment with all sorts of
glorious names embroidered on its colours....

I hope you see my difficulty in regard to my Betty's love affairs. I
had nothing against B