specialists if you interfere with them," so as long as we did our job
we were given a free hand.

The deepest lines are graven on my memory from those days, not by the
thrilling experiences--"th' hairbreadth 'scapes"--but by the fellowship
of the men I knew. An American general said to me recently that scouts
were born, not made. It may be so, but it is surprising what opposite
types of men became our best scouts. There were two without equal:
one, city-bred, a college graduate; the other a "bushie," writing his
name with difficulty.

Ray Wilson was a nervous, highly strung sort of fellow, almost a girl
in his sensitiveness. In fact, at the first there were several who
called him Rachel, but they soon dropped it, for he was a lovable chap,
and disarmed his enemies with his good nature. He had taken his arts
course, but was studying music when he enlisted, and he must have been
the true artist, for though the boys were prejudiced against the
mandolin as being a _sissy_ instrument, when he played they would sit
around in silence for hours. What makes real friendship between men?
You may know and like and respect a fellow for years, and that is as
far as it goes, when, suddenly, one day something happens--a curtain is
pulled aside and you go "ben" [2] with him for a second--afterward you
are "friends," before you were merely friendly acquaintances.

Ray and I became friends in this wise. We were out together scouting
preparatory to a raid, and were seeking a supposed new "listening post"
of the enemy. There had been a very heavy bombardment of the German
trenches all day, and it was only held up for three-quarters of an hour
to let us do our job. The new-stale earth turned up by the shells
extended fifty yards in No Man's Land. (Only earth that has been blown