ut of the stalled ambulance.
But Charlie jumped out in a hurry and held out his hand to the girl.

"You got to beat it away from here, Miss Ruth," he urged. "Another of
those shells is likely to drop any minute. Hurry!"

Ruth had no desire to stay at that perilous corner of the road; but
when she started away from the stalled car she found that she was alone.

"Aren't you coming, Charlie Bragg?" she demanded, turning back.

"Go on! Go on!" he urged her. "I've got to get this old flivver out
of the mud. Keep right on to a little house you'll see on the left
under the bank. Don't go past it in the dark. That's Mother
Gervaise's cottage. It's out of reach of the Boches' shells."

"But you'll be killed, Charlie Bragg!" wailed the girl, suddenly
realizing all the peril of their situation.

"Haven't ever been killed yet," he returned. "I tell you I've got to
get this flivver out of the hole. These supplies have got to be taken
to that field hospital. They're needed. I can't leave 'em here and
run."

"But you expect me to run!" burst out Ruth, in sudden indignation.

"You can't help here. No use your taking a chance. You'll be in
enough danger later. Now, you go on, Miss Ruth. Scoot! Here comes
another!"

They heard the whine of the flying shell almost on top of the thud of
the distant gun. Charlie seized her hand and they ran up the road for
several yards. Then he stopped short, as the shell burst--this time
far to the left of the stalled ambulance.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed. "You've got me rattled, too. Here! I'll go
along to Mother Gervaise with you. Some of the fellows may be there
and I can get help. Come on."

"Oh, Charlie!" murmured the girl. "I'm afraid for you."

"Trying to make me a quitter, are you?" he demanded. "Don't you know
that if the Boches get you, they get you, and that's all there is to
it? And one way or another that fliver's got to be got out of that
hole."

Ruth was silenced. This young fellow--"boy" he called him in her own
mind--had a quality of courage that shamed her. It was just the kind
of bravery needed for the work he was doing in the war--a measure of
recklessness that keeps one from counting the cost too exactly.
Charlie Bragg had a philosophy of his own that kept him cheerful in the
face of peril and was eminently practical at just this time.

He hurried her along the road, his hand under her elbow, seemingly able
to see in the dark like a cat. But i