lightning, to the shallow new trench, to Dudley. I saw him--for the
Germans had the stretch lighted--I saw the man pick up my brother-in-law
and toss him over his shoulders and start trotting back. Then I saw him
fall, both of them fall, and I knew that he'd stopped a bullet. And
then, as I groaned, somehow Beauramé was on his feet again. I expected,
that he'd bolt for cover, but he didn't. He bent over deliberately as if
he had been a fearless hero--and maybe he was--and he picked up Dudley
again and started on, laboring, this time in walking. He was hit badly.
But he made the trench; he brought in Dudley.

Then such a howl of hurrahs greeted him from the men who watched the
rescue as poor little Aristophe Beauramé--"

"Ah!" I interjected, and Bobby turned and stared--"as the poor little
scared rat had not dreamed, or had any right to dream would ever greet
his conduct on earth. He dropped Dudley at my feet and turned with his
flabby mouth open and his great stupid eyes like saucers, towards the
men who rushed to shake his hand and throw at him words of admiration
that choked them to get out. And then he keeled over. So you see. It was
an equal chance at one second, whether a man should be shot for a
deserter or--win the Victoria Cross."

"What!" I shouted at my guest. "What! Not the Victoria Cross! Not
Aristophe!"

Bobby looked at me in surprise. "You're a great claque for me," he said.
"You seem to take an interest in my hero. Yes, he got it. He was badly
hurt. One hand nearly gone and a wound in his side. I was lucky enough
to be in London on a day three months later, and to be present at the
ceremony, when the young French-Canadian, spoiled for a soldier, but