Strongly suspecting by that time that if Scotty were anywhere on earth
he was at the rear in the wagon line, I waited around the station just
long enough to lend plausibility to my search before reporting to the
O.C. The Major was in a towering rage over our losses, and, damning the
cook, he dismissed me. The officers that night had to look to another
cookhouse for their evening meal.

Next morning I was sent for by the Major and dispatched to the wagon
lines on an errand;--at that time I was fulfilling the duties of a
runner for our unit;--he also told me to have a lookout for the cook
while there and make some inquiries about him. I saluted and left. The
first place I went to in the wagon lines was the cookhouse and as I got
there I thought I noticed the swish of someone quickly disappearing
round the corner and the cockney-cook there informed me that Scotty had
spent the previous evening with them and had only left a minute ago.

"'E's no slouch, that cook of yours," he said, "'e's a fighter, 'e is."

"That so?"

"You're right, 'e is. Wy, where 'e was stationed, when the Germans
rushed 'em in the trench, 'e 'eld 'em back, killin' two of 'em
single-handed until the others had retreated. 'E ought to get the
D.C.M., 'e ought; that's what hi say. By Gawd! when it comes to the real
thing, give me the Scotch! An' honly last night 'e was in his cookhouse
with some blighter by the name of Grant when the shells came along, and
this fellow must have 'ad a streak of yellow for he promised to 'elp
Scotty with the meal, but bolted like a bullet at the first shell."

"How did he come to be down here?" I asked.