ths in the hospital, minus an arm.

III

There was "Jock," a "wee bonnie laddie," from the south of Scotland. He
stood five feet three inches tall when wearing field boots with
exceptionally high heels, but that did not prevent him from braining a
Hun with the Hun's own wrench some sixty miles back of the enemy's front
lines, and this is how it happened.

One morning, about three o'clock, information arrived, together with a
complete and undamaged Hun aeroplane and two friendly Hun aviators,
that at a certain German switch station a troop train and an ammunition
train were due to pass at a certain hour. Jock and his pal left the
congenial beer barrel, turned the friendly Hun aviators over to the
guard, made themselves acquainted with the Hun aeroplane, refilled it
with petrol and oil, and departed on a merry adventure. Forgetting that
the Hun machine would be subject to attack by our own aviators, Jock and
his companion were in a great dilemma when so attacked. Of course, they
could not protect themselves by a counter-fire, but when a man is born
in Scotland, and is a direct descendant of oatmeal-eating bandits, he
naturally has a keener brain than even the Jews can boast of;
consequently, by spinning nose dives and other signs of lack of control
the wily Scot gleefully gained the enemy's side of the lines. Here he
was unmolested, although Hun aviators must have been astonished to see
one of their own machines engaged in the British sport of
"hedge-hopping"; i.e., flying close to the ground and "zooming" up over
trees, houses, etc.

In due time Jock and his companion landed in a small field a few hundred
yards away from the all-important switch station. Here they descended
and under pretence of examining their engine, although the first one of
the ever-curious crowd was still several fields away, they looked up the
word "wrench" in an English-German pocket dictionary; they then marched
off to the switch station. Fortunately there was but one occupant, for
neither Jock nor his companion could talk German, and the idiocy of not
carrying a more serviceable weapon than a pocket dictionary never
occurred to the mad Scot until his companion began to make weird
gurgling sounds, evidently intended for the language of the Hun,
addressed to the astonished station-master.

Then down through generations of oatmeal-eating bandits came a glimmer
of sense to Jock. He grabbed the first thing within reach, a wrench, and
brained