A LUCID EXPLANATION.
It was my task to collect from their relatives particulars as to the whereabouts of the wounded of our neighbourhood, for the purposes of our local report. It wanted five minutes to twelve, the sacred dinner-hour of the British artisan, and one name remained upon my list, against which was a pencilled note, "Reported returning home." Did that mean that he was disabled? And should I manage to gather the necessary information before the clock struck?
I knocked at the door, which was opened by a woman wearing a canvas apron with a very tight string, her head surmounted by hair-curlers and a cloth cap.
"Yes, thanking you kindly," she replied in answer to my question, "me son 'as been wounded. 'Eard of it from the War Office. This war's a shocking business."
I expressed my sympathy and asked for particulars.
"Yer see, he was at Gallipoli."
"At Gallipoli? Then it must have been some time ago? I understood—"
"It was this way. Me son, 'e ses to me, 'Mother,' 'e says, 'don't you worry, but I've had a toe took off.' 'E never was one to put up a great shout 'bout hisself, nor nothink of that. They took 'im down to their base 'ospital. Leeharver's the name. Perhaps you know it?"