“Lucky to be alive at all.”

“Or not done in for ever like myself,” said I.

“I didn’t like to ask—­” he said.  Men would rather die than commit the indelicacy of appearing to notice my infirmity.

“You haven’t been out there?”

“No such luck,” said I.  “I got this little lot about a fortnight after I saw you.  Johnnie was still on sick leave and so was out of that scrap.”

He commiserated with me on my ill-fortune, and handed me his cigarette case.  We smoked.

“You’ve been on my mind for months,” he said abruptly.

“I?”

He nodded.  “I thought I recognised you.  I asked the General who you were.  He said ‘Meredyth of the Gunners.’  So I knew I was right and made a bee line for you.  Do you remember the story of that man in the hospital?”

“Perfectly,” said I.

“About Boyce of the King’s Watch?”

“Yes,” said I.  “I saw Boyce, home on leave, about a fortnight ago.  I suppose you saw his D.S.O. gazetted?”

“I did.  And he deserves a jolly sight more,” he exclaimed heartily.  “I’ve come to the conclusion that that fellow in the hospital—­I forget the brute’s name—­”

“Somers,” said I.

“Yes, Somers.  I’ve come to the conclusion that he was the damn’dest, filthiest, lyingest hound that ever was pupped.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said I.  “It was a horrible story.  I remember making your brother and yourself vow eternal secrecy.”

“You can take it from me that we haven’t breathed a word to anybody.  As a matter of fact, the whole damn thing had gone out of my head for years.  Then I begin to hear of a fellow called Boyce of the Rifles doing the most crazy magnificent things.  I make enquiries and find it’s the same Leonard Boyce of the Vilboek Farm story.  We’re in the same Brigade.

“You don’t often hear of individual men out there—­your mind’s too jolly well concentrated on your own tiny show.  But Boyce has sort of burst out beyond his own regiment and, with just one or two others, is beginning to be legendary.  He has done the maddest things and won the V.C. twenty times over.  So that blighter Somers, accusing him of cowardice, was a ghastly liar.  And then I remembered taking you up to hear that damnable slander, and I felt that I had a share in it, as far as you were concerned, and I longed to get at you somehow and tell you about it.  I wanted to get it off my chest.  And now,” said he with a breath of relief, “thank God, I’ve been able to do so.”

“I wish you would tell me of an incident or two,” said I.

“He has got a life-preserver that looks like an ordinary cane—­had it specially made.  It’s quite famous.  Men tell me that the knob is a rich, deep, polished vermilion.  He’ll take on any number of Boches with it single-handed.  If there’s any sign of wire-cutting, he’ll not let the men fire, but will take it on himself, and creep like a Gurkha and do the devils in.