do meet one performing such
a feat, I shall say: 'There goes a sahib--and a soldier!' and I shall
take off my hat to him."

"Well, get ready now," said Bobby. "Look!"

They were still standing at the trench junction. Two figures, in the
uniform of the Staff, were visible in Orchard Trench, working their
way down from the apex--picking their steps amid the tumbled sandbags,
and stooping low to avoid gaps in the ruined parapet. The sun was just
rising behind the German trenches. One of the officers was burly and
middle-aged; he did not appear to enjoy bending double. His companion
was slight, fair-haired, and looked incredibly young. Once or twice he
glanced over his shoulder, and smiled encouragingly at his senior.

The pair emerged through the archway into the main trench, and
straightened their backs with obvious relief. The younger officer--he
was a lieutenant--noticed Captain Blaikie, saluted him gravely, and
turned to follow his companion.

Captain Blaikie did not take his hat off, as he had promised. Instead,
he stood suddenly to attention, and saluted in return, keeping his
hand uplifted until the slim, childish figure had disappeared round
the corner of a traverse.

It was the Prince of Wales.

XX

THE GATHERING OF THE EAGLES

When this war is over, and the glory and the praise are duly assigned,
particularly honourable mention should be made of the inhabitants of a
certain ancient French town with a Scottish name, which lies not far
behind a particularly sultry stretch of the trenches. The town is
subject to shell fire, as splintered walls and shattered windows
testify; yet every shop stands open. The town, moreover, is the only
considerable place in the district, and enjoys a monopoly of patronage
from all the surrounding billeting areas; yet the keepers of the
shops have heroically refrained from putting up their prices to any
appreciable extent. This combination of courage and fair-dealing has
had its reward. The town has become a local Mecca. British soldiers
with an afternoon to spare and a few francs to spend come in from
miles around. Mess presidents send in their mess-sergeants, and
fearful and wonderful is the marketing which ensues.

In remote and rural billets catering is a simple matter. We take what
we can get, and leave it at that. The following business-card, which
Bobby Little once found attached to an outhouse door in one of his
billets, puts the resources of a French hamlet