"Kemble, the general's orderly, a giant with a dozen or so to his account, was full of pity for the poor little Cockney. 'Mon,
mon,' he said, 'I can hardly believe ye. Why, never a single one? Not even wounded?'
"'No,' said Biggs, 'honest Injun. I run so slowly, I'm always the last to get there—I never get a chance.'
"Well, a few days later, the battalion was up in the line again, and was sent into a little stunt opposite Fleurbaix, to straighten out a salient. You remember, sir? It's one of the best things the Division has ever done.
"Artillery preparation, low barrage, cutting communications—everything came off like clockwork, and we caught the Boches in their holes like rabbits.
"While the men were busy with their rifles, grenades and bayonets, cleaning up the conquered trenches, suddenly a voice was heard shouting:
"'Harry, Harry, where are you?... Just send Biggs along here, will you?... Pass the word along to Private Biggs.'
"It was the voice of the Highlander, Kemble. Some giant grasped Biggs by the seat of his trousers and swung him and his rifle up to the parapet. Then two strong hands seized the little man, and he was swung in mid-air from man to man right up the file till he was finally handed over to Kemble, who seized him affectionately with his left hand, and, full of joy at the dainty treat he had in store for his friend, cried, 'Mon, mon, look in this wee hole: I've got twa of 'em at the end of my rifle, but I've kept 'em for you.'
"This is a true story," added Colonel Parker, "and it shows once more that the British soldier has a kind heart."
The Rev. Mr. Jeffries had turned very pale.