"Back to face that blasted pillbox, that there Maxim, sir. It got me mate, Tommy Watts. It'll get a lot more of us. I hate to think of the lads what's going to cop it. Now sir, I bin thinking."

Colonel Dennison was very patient.

"I know a way to put that Maxim out of business. Smash it for good and all, sir." And with a funny little chuckle Bill 'Obbs told the colonel of his desperate scheme.

The elderly grave-faced officer heard him through, then gasped and rose to his feet. "Could such a thing be attempted?”

"I can do it, sir." Bill was anxious. "Is it a go?"

"Well, Hobbs," he was studying the unmilitary figure, staring fixedly at him-"I really don't know what to say. It's a reckless scheme andand-" His set features relaxed a

little. "Perhaps I should tell you this, Hobbs. I've decided, under the circumstances of your action following your military crime, not to call a court-martial. My present plan is to take the matter up with Brigade and have you shipped back to England, to the military prison at Aldershot.'

Bill 'Obbs suppressed a shudder. He had heard of that prison, knew what they did there to crimed men.

"Let me tackle that blasted Maxim, sir," he begged. "That'll be taking all that's coming to mein one lump. I'm willing to take my punishment. Comes to the same thing in the end, sir, and we'll save the government a hundred wooden crosses. Anything for economy, that's what I say."

Colonel Dennison was graver than ever. "It's a brave, a very brave, a deliberate sacrifice," he stammered. He went to the window, stood there in silence. At length, without turning, he said: "I'll think it over, Hobbs. I'll let you know before morning."

"Very good, sir."

One hour later, Bill 'Obbs strolled into Avesnes-le-Comte a free man. His boots were cleaned and polished, the buckle on his belt gleamed like gold, his tin hat was oiled and set at a jaunty angle and in his trousers' pocket was a roll of notes given him by his colonel. "Back pay, Hobbsand something extra.' The back pay amounted to forty francs; the something extra increased it to a hundred. "Enjoy yourself, Hobbs. Have a good time."

"I will, sir."

But much as he desired to join his mates, to treat them to all and every

thing they wanted, to force them by the elbow of wholesale generosity to take him to their hearts, Bill 'Obbs— under the grim circumstances of his freedom-couldn't make his release known. Somehow, their jollifications, the conviviality of their drunken rowdyism, seemed barred to him. It was as if something, something insurmountable, lay between them.

Taka-taka-taka-taka-taka-taka-takaRegretfully, he turned away. He wandered aimlessly through the dark streets and took an unfrequented road that led west, toward the Channel, toward England.

Bill 'Obbs grinned as he realized the direction he was headed in. They said the stars were millions of miles away, but England was farther still. Quite suddenly he felt tired, in need of a stimulant. The money in his trousers' pocket burned to be spent.

Turning, he retraced his steps to a small deserted café that stood about half a mile from the town.

A low dark room received him, a room lit by two tallow candles stuck in dark-green bottles that were mantled by white grease, and a small fire in a preposterously large fireplace. There were a few round tables, some chairs and high-backed benches. Bill 'Obbs had to stoop to avoid the great black cross-beams as he made for the fire.

Accentuating the loneliness of the place, a girl sat at one of the tables. She was a young and pallid little thing who appeared either starved or consumptive. Here, in the gloom, her lips seemed black. In reality they were a vivid red. Bill 'Obbs could have put all the clothes she

wore, including her hat and shoes, in the pocket of his greatcoat. There was something about her eyes, in their misty depths, something that—

But no. Few men would have looked twice at her. Still Bill 'Obbs looked, looked a dozen times and more. Her eyes made him think of London, when the scintillation of its west and east, its mansion, pub and music-hall was screened by a thin transparent fog. Ah! London was beautiful then! Very beautiful! On impulse he over to her.

rose and walked

"You're English, ain't yer?" he asked tentatively.

"None of yer dam' business."

He smiled. "Yus, I thought you was English," he said, sitting down beside her. "London, too, I'll bet five bob. And I wouldn't be so far off if I said the Mile End Road."

A smoldering fire played through the foggy eyes. Her little white face grew hard as marble.

"Needn't sit down," she informed him. "I don't want yer bloomin' company."

Bill reddened. "I thought perhaps-”

"Oh, you thought, did yer? Well think again, old dear. Slope off!" she ordered. "Fade away, beat it, vamose, and do the conjuring act on yerself!"

Her table was bare of glass. A broken saucer served as ash-tray and there was one cigarette stub on it.

"Yer wouldn't like a drop of-?"

"No, I wouldn't," she snapped. "I want to be left alone-that's all I want. To be left alone!" And on the instant of this fierce statement, the mist in her eyes evaporated and left the makings of a tear. At least

"I didn't mean to hurt yer feelings," he said. "I'm lonely—like yourself, maybe-and I only thought-"

He sat at another table. The proprietor came in an old man with a face furrowed like a walnut shell and stood bent half over in a mild

inquiring posture.

"What about a glass o' beer?" invited Bill, addressing the girl.

A withering glance relegated him to perdition.

Bill drank his beer, then drank another. An hour went by in silence save for the distant roll of war, the drone of passing aëroplane. "What are yer staring at?" she snapped, suddenly.

Bill coughed. "I was just a-trying to figure you out," he replied and chanced a smile at her. "Now then," he coaxed, "come off yer perch. 'Ave a drink with me. You can 'ave anything yer like. I've got the money." And he slapped his trousers' pocket.

She didn't answer.

Another half-hour went by in silence. Then he said: "What I can't understand is this. How's it happen that a girl like you is landed in a dump—?”

"None of yer dam' business." Again two smoldering eyes rebuked him. "Look here, Mr. Nosey," she demanded; "who d'yer think you are? A bloomin' officer, or something? Didn't I tell yer I wanted to be left alone?"

Bill snapped his fingers. "Now I got yer," he said. "So that's it, eh? I thought at first you was stranded here, or something, maybe an am

"Oh, you have, have yer?"

"Yus," said Bill. "And d'you know what I think? I think it's a blinkin' shame. That's what I think. A young gel like you, pretty and-" He straightened. "What in 'ell brought you out to a place like this?"

No answer.

"Why didn't yer stay in London?" asked Bill. "'Cause that's where yer come from, I can tell by the way yer talk. You wasn't forced to come over here, like me. Look here!" he roared; "they ain't keeping you 'ere, against yer will, are they?"

"No."

"Well, don't tell me you like being 'ere?"

Spasmodically, she smote the table with a small clenched fist. "No, I don't!" she cried. "I want to go back . . . I want to go back!" "What makes yer stay?" "I dunno."

Bill 'Obbs, in the manner of his kind, then summed up his opinion of her. "You're a blinkin' little idiot," he swore. "That's what you are. A blinkin' little idiot."

She glared at him a moment longer, then gave way. Burying her face in her thin arms she sobbed as though her heart would break.

Bill sipped his beer. No use saying any more till she'd finished crying. But he'd got her right, hadn't he? He nodded solemnly. Not that he cared where she came from, nor what she was. Part of the war, of course, but a damn sight less useful than Tommy Watts. A

blinkin' shame!

Bill 'Obbs was no moralist. He viewed her as a bit of down, light as gossamer, blown from the daisied cliffs of Merrie England and caught, held, by the brambles on a foreign shore. To Bill, apart from that misfortune, she was as good as the greatest lady in the land, and a hell of a sight more attractive to look at. Later, when she dried her tears. and started chatting, she saw in him a kindred spirit; some one who spoke her language, was commonplace and bred of the same bone. Gradually she composed herself to a keen appreciation of all he did and said. At times the strange dancing lights in his eyes riveted her attention. She drank his beer and liked it better than champagne. He said things that were kindly meant but were roughly delivered, came straight from the shoulder. His superiors wouldn't have dared talk to her that way, but with Bill 'Obbs she laughed, and her laughter rang a note of music into her starved and pinched soul.

Both were products of a part of London, a warren into which the warmth of social kindness rarely pierced, a locality where tradition taught its denizens to help one

another.

When she told him she didn't know how she had ever strayed, Bill 'Obbs believed her. But when she said she'd give an arm to break away and lead a proper life he kept silent-because he couldn't believe

her.

He still hit from the shoulder. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"What about your parents?" "Dunno," she said quietly.

"Dunno anything any more 'cept this place, down the road. I hate it. That's why I come here, now and then, to be by meself a bit. I'm fair sick of hearing 'em talk.”

"Reserved for officers," he growled.

She nodded. "So dam' polite." She twirled an imaginary mustache. "Awfully glad to see you, don't you know.' 'Charmed, charmed.' 'I say! won't you harve a cigarette? Oh, do."" Maisie sniffed. "They don't talk natural, like you do," she complimented him. "Gawd! the blighters don't even swear, or nothing."

Bill 'Obbs laughed.

"You say you can quit, any time yer want to?"