The little cabin took fire. The flames crept up the dry, worm-eaten boards. The men turned and watched them.
A young lieutenant, who was small, and had a round, jolly face, came and walked beside Gard.
"You see, those other fellows seemed to lose about two-thirds; so a fellow will be pretty apt to go in and stay there. About two to one."
"About that. But the old man might mean somebody to go in and stay there alive. He might have that idea. Yours isn't inspiring."
"Oh, I only meant—I was thinking you might let my people know if I'm potted."
"All right."
"I'll do the same if—"
"No matter, Billy. I haven't any. Look out for your end men. They're nervous."
In a few moments the column was gone, scurrying away over hollows and flat stretches. Gard lay on his face near the stone foundations and smoking ashes of a barn in a field. "Out of this fight," he thought, and turned over. His muscles seemed to have all become dissolved and loose. He lifted the edge of his coat and looked under. "It looks like a bad one." The blood did not flow steadily, but leaped and was bright red. "It ought to be picked up. It is an artery. If I knew how I might pick it up!" It was a slanting trench, indefinitely deep, and pumping up blood from the bottom. There must be smashed bone in it somewhere. You could tell from the slant the direction of the point where the shell had burst. Two other men lay near by, one of them still living, but with the top of his head crushed; he was kicking a hole in the ground with his heel.