I looked at him in amazement. It wasn't funk then, that made him seek safety in that shell-hole. Was it possible that dear old Septimus, this bland, indifferent tubby, blasé old thing of Bond Street, was anxious to go into that creepy, mysterious wood to look for ammunition?
"All right; take a corporal and 12 men, and bring back six boxes. Don't take unnecessary risks; we shall need every man to-morrow."
Septimus sprang out of the shell-hole, saluted in the most correct manner—something quite new for him—and disappeared in the darkness.
This was a new side of Septimus's character which had not shown itself before. Only the stoutest heart would have chosen to wander about in that wood at midnight, with enemy patrols lurking about. Septimus was a man, after all.
Five minutes later he passed me, leading his men. He gripped my hand as he passed, with the remark: "Well! Ta-ta, old thing."
"Cheer oh!"
And Septimus was gone. We may call men fops, simple vacant fools, or what we like; but the war has proved over and over again that the man within the man is merely disguised by his outer covering. Many a Bond Street Algy, or ballroom idol has proved amidst the terrors of war that the artificial covering of a peace-time habit is but skin-deep; and the real man is underneath.