Barry pulled out his little Bible and read, not one of the "fighting psalms" but the tenderly exquisite words of the Shepherd's song. His voice was clear, steady and ringing with cheery confidence. His prayer was in the spirit of the psalm, breathing high courage and calm trust, even in the presence of the ultimate issue.

In a single sentence he commended his comrades to the keeping of the Eternal God of Truth and Justice and Mercy, asking that they might be found steadfast in their hour of testing and worthy of their country and their cause.

Together they joined in the Lord's prayer; then lifting over them his hands, he closed the little service with that ancient and beautiful formula of blessing, which for two thousand years has sent men out from the Holy Place of Meeting to face with hearts resolved whatever life might hold for them.

One by one, as they passed out the officers shook hands with Barry, thanking him for the service, and expressing their delight that he was with them again.

"What are we going to do with you, Pilot?" inquired the colonel.

"I thought I'd stick around with the boys," said Barry.

"Well," said the colonel, gravely, "of course, there's no use of your going up to the attack. You would only be in the way. You would be an embarrassment to the officers. That reminds me, there was a call from Menin Mill for you this afternoon. They are having an awful rush there.

Our own R. A. P. will be in Zillebeck Village, and our Headquarters will be there."

"I'll go there, sir, if you agree," said Barry, and after some discussion the matter was so arranged.

In a ruined cellar in the village of Zillebeck, a mile and a half further in, the R. A. P. was established and there carried on during the desperate fighting of the next three days. Through this post a continuous stream of wounded passed, the stretcher cases all night, the walking cases all day and all night. In spite of its scenes of horror and suffering the R. A. P. was a cheery spot. The new M. O. was strange to his front line business, but he was of the right stuff, cool, quick with his fingers, and undisturbed by the crashing of bursting shells.

The stretcher bearers and even the wounded maintained an air of resolute cheeriness, that helped to make bearable what otherwise would have been a nightmare of unspeakable horror. Attached to the R. A. P. was an outer building wherein the wounded men were laid after treatment. Thither in a pause of his work, Barry would run to administer drinks, ease the strain of an awkward position, speak a word of cheer, say a prayer, or sing snatches of a hymn or psalm. There was little leisure for reflection, nor if there had been would he have indulged in reflection, knowing well that only thus could he maintain his self-control and "carry on."

With each wounded man there came news of the progress of the fighting.

The boys were holding splendidly, indeed were gradually eating into the enemy front. They brought weird stories of his comrades, incidents pathetic, humorous, heroic, according to the temperament of the narrator. But from more than one source came tales of Knight's machine gun section to which McCuaig was attached. Knight himself had been killed soon after entering the line, and about his men conflicting tales were told: they were holding a strong point, they were blown up, they had shifted their position, they were wiped out, they were still "carrying on." McCuaig was the hero of every tale. He was having the time of his life. He had gone quite mad. He was for going "out and over"

alone.

The first authentic account came with young Pickles, now a runner, who made his way hobbling to Headquarters with a message from A Company, and who reported that he had fallen in with McCuaig by the way, and by him had been commandeered to carry ammunition, under threat of instant death.

"Where did you see McCuaig first, Pickles?" Barry inquired, anxious to learn the truth about his friend.

"Way up Lover's Walk," said young Pickles, who was in high spirits, "under a pile of brush and trees. I though it was a wildcat, or something moving and snarling--the light was kind of dim--and when I went up there was McCuaig. He was alone. Two or three men were lying near him, dead, I guess, and he was swearing, and talking to himself something fierce. I was scart stiff when he called me to him. I went over, and he says to me, 'Say, youngster,' just like that, 'you know where this walk used to drop down into the trench? Well, there's a lot of machine gun ammunition over there, all fixed up and ready. You go and bring it up here.' I tried to get out of it, sayin' I was bringing a 'hurry up' message down, but he turns his machine gun on me, and says, 'Young man, it's only a couple of hundred yards down there, and fairly good cover. They can't see you. Go and bring that stuff here. If you don't I'll blow you to hell just where you stand.' You bet I promised.

I got that ammunition so quick. Oh, of course, he's crazy, all right,"

said young Pickles, "but he is fighting like hell. I beg pardon, sir."

"Doctor, I'm going after him," said Barry. "He will stay there until he bleeds to death. He is my oldest friend."

"All right, padre, if you say so," said the M. O., "but it's a nasty job. I should not care for it."

Barry knew the area thoroughly. He got from young Pickles an exact description of the location of the spot where McCuaig had last been seen, and with the returning stretcher bearers set off for the wood, which was about a thousand yards further on.

The communication trench leading up to the wood, which had been constructed with such care and of which the Canadians were so proud, had been blown up from end to end by the systematic and thorough bombardment of the three days before. The little party, therefore, were forced to make their way overland by the light of the star shells.

They reached the wood in safety. Barry looked about him in utter bewilderment. Every familiar feature of the landscape was utterly blotted out. The beautiful ambrosial wood itself, of heavy trees and thick tinder-brush, was a mat of tangled trunks, above which stood splintered stubs. Not a tree, not a branch, hardly a green leaf was left. Under that mat of fallen trunks were A and C Companies, somewhere, holding, blocking, feeling up toward the Hun.

The shells were whining overhead, going out and coming in, but mostly coming in. None, however, were falling on the wood because here friend and foe were lying almost within bayonet length of each other. Only an occasional burst from a machine gun broke the silence that hung over this place of desolation and death.

"That's the company Headquarters," said the stretcher bearer, pointing to what looked like a bear den, under some fallen trees. Barry pushed aside the blanket and poking his head in, found Duff and a young lieutenant working at a table by the light of a guttering candle.

"For the love of God, Pilot," exclaimed Duff, springing up and gripping Barry's hand, "it's good to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"I came up for McCuaig," said Barry, after a warm greeting to both.

"Oh, say, that's good. We have got him as far as the next dugout here, the old bear. I've been trying to get him out for half a day. There's a soldier for you! He's been potting Boches with his blessed machine gun, scouting from one hole to another for the last two days, and he's got a nasty wound. I'm awfully glad you have come."

"How are things going, Duff?"

"We have got the ----s so that they can't move a foot, and we'll hold them, unless they bring up a lot of reserves."

"By Jove! Duff, you boys are wonderful."

"I say," said Duff, brushing aside the compliment, "did young Pickles get through? That young devil is the limit. You'd have thought he was hunting coyotes."

"Yes, he got through. Got a blighty though, I guess. It was he that told me about McCuaig."

"Well, Pilot, old man," said Duff, taking him by the arm, "get out!

Get out! Don't waste time. There may be a break any minute. Get out of here."

Duff was evidently in a fever of anxiety. "You had no right to come up here anyway; though, by Jove, I'm glad to see you."

"What's the fuss, Duff?" said Barry. "Am I in any more danger than you?

I say," he continued, with tense enthusiasm, "do you realise, Duff, that as long as Canada lasts they will talk of what you are doing up here these days?"

"For Heaven's sake, Pilot, get out," said Duff crossly. "You make me nervous. Besides, you have got to get that wounded man out, you know.

Come along."

He hustled Barry out and over to the neighbouring dugout, where they found McCuaig with his beloved machine gun still at his side. The wounded man was very pale, but extremely cheerful, smoking a cigarette.

"I'm glad to see you, sir," he said quietly, reaching out his hand.

"Good old man," said Barry, gripping his hand hard, "but you are a blamed old fool, you know."

McCuaig made no reply, but there was a happy light on his face. Under Duff's compelling urging they got the wounded man on a stretcher and started on their long and painful carry.

"Now, boys," warned Duff, "you are all right up here, except for machine guns, but don't take any chances further out. That's where the danger is. When the shells come, don't rush things. Take your time. Now, good-bye, Pilot, it's worth a lot to have seen you anyway."

"Good-bye, old man," said Barry, smiling at him. "You're the stuff. Good luck, old man. God keep you."

Duff nodded, and waved him away. The return trip was made in comparative quiet.

"What do you think, doctor?" said Barry, after the M. O. had completed his examination.

"Oh, we'll pull him through all right," said the M. O. "When did you get this, McCuaig?" he continued, touching a small wound over the kidney.

"Dunno, rightly. Guess I got it when we was blown up, yesterday."

"Then why didn't you come in at once?" inquired the M. O. indignantly.

McCuaig looked at him in mild surprise.

"Why, they was all blown up, and there wasn't anybody to run the gun."

The M. O. examined the wound more closely and shook his head at Barry.