“That” was Jim Linton and his warriors, very muddy, but otherwise undamaged. They dropped into the trench quietly, those who came first turning to receive heavy objects from those yet on top. Last of all Jim hopped down.
“Hullo, Wal!” he whispered. “Got ’em.”
“Got ’em!” said the Colonel sternly. “What? Where have you been, sir?”
“I beg your pardon, sir—I didn’t know you were there,” Jim said, rather horrified. It is not given to every subaltern to call his commanding officer “Wal,” when that is not his name. “I have the guns, sir.”
“You have—what?”
“The Boche—I mean, the enemy, machine-guns. We brought them back, sir.”
“You brought them back!” The Colonel leaned against the wall of the trench and began to laugh helplessly. “And your men?”
“All here, sir. We brought the ammunition, too,” said Jim mildly. “It seemed a pity to waste it!”
Which things, being told in high places, brought Jim a mention in despatches, and, shortly afterwards, confirmation of his acting rank. It would be difficult to find fitting words to tell of the effect of this matter upon a certain grizzled gentleman and a very young lady who, when the information reached them were studying patent manures in a morning-room in a house in Surrey.
“He’s—why,” gasped Norah incredulously—“he’s actually Captain Linton!”