s him, sat very still.

"What I mean to say is," Bobby began, "that this war, horrible as it is,
is making over human, nature for the better. It's burning out
selfishness and cowardice and a lot of faults from millions of men, and
it's holding up the nobility of what some of them do to the entire
world. It takes a character, this debacle, and smashes out the
littleness. Another thing is curious. If a small character has one good
point on which to hang heroism, the battle-spirit searches out that
point and plants on it the heroism. There was a stupid young private in
my command who--but I'm afraid I'm telling too many war stories," Bobby
appealed, interrupting himself. "I'm full of it, you see, and when
people are so good, and listen--" He stopped, in a confusion which is
not his least attractive manner.

From down the table came a quick murmur of voices. I saw more than one
glance halt at the crutch on the back of the soldier's chair.

"Thank you. I'd really like to tell about this man. It's interesting,
psychologically to me," he went on, smiling contentedly. He is a lovable
chap, my cousin Robert Thornton. "The lad whom I speak of, a
French-Canadian from Quebec Province, was my servant, my batman, as the
Indian army called them and as we refer to them often now. He was so
brainless that I just missed firing him the first day I had him. But
John Dudley, my brother-in-law and lieutenant, wanted me to give him a
chance, and also there was something in his manner when I gave him
orders which attracted me. He appeared to have a pleasure in serving,
and an ideal of duty. Dudley had used him as a guide, and the man had a
dog-like devotion to 'the lieutenant' which counted with me. Also he
didn't talk. I think he knew only four words. I flung orders at him and
there would be first a shock of excitement, then a second of tense
anxiety, then a radiant smile and the four words: '_C'est bien, Mon
Capitaine_.' I was captain then."

At that point I dropped my knife and fork and stared at my cousin. He
went on.

"'_C'est bien, Mon Capitaine_.' That was the slogan. And when the
process was accomplished, off he would trot, eager to do my will. He was
powerful and well-built, but he had the oddest manner of locomotion ever
I saw, a trot like--like a Ford car. I discovered pretty soon that the
poor wretch was a born coward. I've seen him start at the distant sound
of guns long before we got near the front, and he was nervous at goi