hes, where the big Irishman received him in his arms.

"Not hurt, darlin', are ye?" he asked anxiously.

"No, thank God, only shaken a bit," answered the Corporal.

Next day, however, our hero was not so fortunate, although he gained a
reward for which many of his comrades panted.

He was on duty at the time in the trenches. The Russians had been
pretty quiet that night, but just before daybreak they made a sortie in
considerable force. Our Corporal's company had to bear the brunt of the
fighting, and suffered much. It was broad daylight before the Russians
were driven back. Some of the more fiery men of the company pursued
them too far, and were cut off. At last all the survivors returned to
the trenches, and then the enemy commenced a furious cannonade, as if to
revenge themselves for the repulse. Their sharpshooters, too, were on
the alert, and if a man chanced to show the top of his shako above the
earthworks, several bullets went through it instantly.

Among those who had fallen on the exposed ground outside was a young
officer--almost a boy, with fair curling hair and a soft little
moustache.

He lay severely wounded under the frail protection of a bush round which
shot and shell were raining fearfully. Corporal Thorogood observed him,
leaped over the earthworks, ran through the iron storm, raised the youth
in his strong arms, and brought him under cover in safety. The
Corporal's shako was riddled, and his clothes were torn in all
directions, but nothing had touched his body save one bullet, which cut
off the forefinger of his right hand.

For this gallant deed Corporal Robert Thorogood afterwards received the
Victoria Cross. What pleased him far more, however, was the fact that
the young officer's life was saved, and he ultimately recovered from his
wounds.

"Ah, then," said the big Irishman, with a look of pity when Bob showed
him his bleeding hand, "your sodgerin' days is over, me boy."

And so they were. At the close of the war our Corporal retired from the
service with a small pension, leaving two fingers behind him!

CHAPTER SIX.

One very cold but calm and clear winter night, a lame man was seen to
hurry along the Strand in the direction of Saint Paul's Cathedral. The
man was clothed in a thick greatcoat, and wore a shawl round his neck,
which muffled him up to the very eyes. Indeed, the said shawl would
have gone quite over his eyes if it had not been for his fine Roman
nose, w