It
was no especial satisfaction for a man in his position to climb up
on his elbow and help to discharge a volley at an empty landscape.
The war pictures he had been prone to study in his boyhood had been
full of twisty-necked prancing horses and bright-coated swaggering
men, all on their feet, and very hot and earnest. Here the picture
was made up of a row of brown-clothed forms lying flat on their
stomachs and, far before them, a single flat-topped hill and a few
heaps of scattered black rocks. And this was modern war.
There came a third blaze, a third hum of Mauser bullets. Then he
heard a swift intake of the breath, followed by Carew's voice, the
drawling, languid voice which Weldon had learned to associate with
moments of deep excitement.
"Say, Weldon, some beggar has hit me in the shoulder!"
Then of a sudden Weldon realized that at last he knew what it meant
to be under fire.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Oh, truce! Truce!" Alice Mellen protested. "Don't talk shop,
Cooee."
"It's not shop; it is topics of the day," Ethel responded
tranquilly. "Besides, I want to hear about Mr. Carew. Is he
dangerous?"
Weldon laughed.
"No, for his wound; yes, for his temper.
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