et him and those
nests. They're spoiling the entire afternoon."

The lieutenant glanced at him, startled.

"I can do it----"

"You haven't," George reminded him.

He despatched runners to the flank companies and to regimental
headquarters announcing that he was moving ahead. When the battalion
advanced, like a lot of fairly clever Indians, he was in the van, making
straight for the tree. He had a queer idea that Mrs. Planter quietly
searched in the underbrush ahead of him. The machine guns, which had
been trickling, gushed.

"You're hit, sir," the lieutenant said.

George glanced at his right boot. There was a hole in the leather, but
he didn't feel any pain. He dismissed the lieutenant's suggestion of
stretcher bearers. He limped ahead. Why should he assume this risk for
Lambert? Sylvia wouldn't thank him for it. She wouldn't thank him for
anything, but her mother would. He had to get Lambert back and complete
his task, but he was afraid to examine the still form he saw at last at
the base of the tree, and he knew very well that that was only because
Lambert was his friend. He designated a man to guide the stretcher
bearers, and bent, his mind full of swift running and vicious tackles,
abrupt and brutal haltings of this figure that seemed to be asleep, that
would never run again.

Lambert stirred.

"Been expecting you, George," he said, sleepily.

"Anything besides your leg?" George asked.

"Guess not," Lambert answered. "What more do you want? Thanks for
coming."

George left him to the stretcher bearers and hurried on full of envy;
for Lambert was going home, and George hadn't dared stop to urge him to
forget that dangerous nonsense he had talked the other night. Nonsense!
You had only to look at these brown figures trying to flank the spouting
guns. Why did they have to glance continually at him? Why had they
paused when he had paused to speak to Lambert? Same side of the window!
But a few of them stumbled and slept as they fell.

He had just begun to worry about the blood in his right boot when
something snapped at the bone of his good leg, and he pitched forward
helplessly.

"Some tackle!" he thought.

Then through his brain, suddenly confused, flashed an overwhelming
gratitude. He couldn't walk. He couldn't go forward. He wouldn't have to
take any more risks beyond those shared with the stretcher bearers who
would carry him back. Like Lambert, he was through. He was going
home--home to Sylvia,