Just as we got immediately opposite the looters a burst of shell fire
from the German guns, followed by a hail of shrapnel, blazed all about
us, and the hero-cook jumped like a bullfrog, bumping plumb into one of
the Algerians, and he and the cook and the pig tumbled over and over,
the pig squealing like mad, the Algerian rolling out deep-throated oaths
in his native tongue, and Scotty cursing as only a redheaded gabby
Scotchman can, all amid an ear-splitting din of shrieking shells and
flare-gleams completing a _mise en scène_ as striking as anything ever
created by a master artist of stagecraft.

When Scotty extricated himself from the tangle his face and clothes were
smeared from the blood of the dripping beast, so that he could indeed
have passed for the blood-stained hero he had proclaimed himself in the
cookhouse, and in spite of his plight Scotty grinned as I suggested the
thought to him and the twinkle returned to his eye, and his spirits took
a decidedly upward turn until we reached the Major's quarters.

The Major was still cursing mad over the loss of the trenches in the gas
attack and I felt the moment he spoke that Scotty's fate looked black.

"Where have you been, Henderson?"

"I was in the cookhouse, sir, when a shell struck it, smashing
everything in sight, and I lost complete control o' my nerves and
started for the wagon lines wi'out knowing what I was doing or where I
was going, and didna' come to mysel' until Grant ran across me in the
dugout."

"That won't go, Henderson. Orderly room at ten-thirty in the morning.