The Brown Brethren. Patrick MacGill

you billeted?"

      "Oh, at the next village," said the man. "A number of the A.S.C. are billeted there."

       Again a long silence. Their boots crunched angrily on the roadway and ahead the lights of war lit up the horizon.

      "They're fighting like hell up there," said the man. "There's a big battle on now. Has your regiment been called up?"

      As he spoke he pulled his rifle forward across his chest and fumbled with the bolt. Fitzgerald stared at him fascinated, his nerves strained to an acute pitch.

      "What are you doing with your rifle?" he asked.

      "Oh, nothing," the stranger answered and slung the weapon over his left shoulder. Had the man a round in the breech? Fitzgerald wondered. For himself he had not even a cartridge in the magazine. What a fool he had been not to take the precaution of being prepared for emergencies. … The stranger came close to his side and his shoulder almost touched Fitzgerald's. The Rifleman moved to the left, close to the verge of the road and his hand slipped towards his bandolier.

      "It's very dark to-night," he said as his fingers closed on a cartridge.

      "Very dark," said the man.

      "There's no moon," Fitzgerald remarked as he slipped the bolt of his rifle back. Then with due caution he pressed the cartridge into the mouth of the magazine. As far as he could judge the stranger had not noticed the action.

      "No, there's no moon," he said in answer to Fitzgerald's remark.

      "How far is it to the next village?" asked Fitzgerald and shoved the rounds into the magazine. The cartridge-clip clattered on to the cobbles.

      "You've dropped something," said the stranger. "What was it?"

      "I've dropped nothing," the Irishman replied. "I must have hit my boot against something."

      He glanced at the stranger's face. White and ghostly it looked, with a protruding jowl and a dark moustache that drooped over the lips. As Fitzgerald spoke he pressed the bolt home and now felt a certain confidence enter his being. There was the round snug in the breech of his rifle. One touch of the trigger. …

      "Did you think I dropped a shilling?" he laughed. "Wish I had one to throw away."

      "Many a one would wish the same," said the man gruffly.

      Then he whistled a tune through his teeth, a contemplative whistle as if he were considering something.

      "You're at Y—— Farm, of course," he suddenly remarked. "There are a number of soldiers billeted there. You know the way to it?"

      "I know the way," Fitzgerald answered.

      "You leave the road at a ruined cottage along here and cross the fields," said the man. "I'm going that way myself."

      "I leave the road further along," the Irishman said hastily.

      "Nonsense," said the man. "Past the ruined cottage is the best way."

      "I'm not going that way," Fitzgerald said.

      "Not going that way," repeated his companion. "Why not?"

      "I don't know the road through the fields there."

      "But I know the way."

      "I prefer to go further along," said Fitzgerald. "Two of my mates are just ahead."

      "Where are they?" asked the stranger in a tone of surprise. "I thought you were all alone."

      "They are just a few hundred yards on in front," was the answer. "Not so far away."

      "Oh!" said the man. "Then that is why you're in such a hurry."

       "I'm in no particular hurry," said Fitzgerald. "But it is wise to be back before 'Lights out.'"

      He could see the ruined cottage in front now, a black blur against the night. The limitless levels stretched out on either side, frogs croaked in the ponds, now and then a light shot up from the fields, trembled in air for a moment and died away. The breezes of the night, the "unseen multitude," as the ancients called them, capered by, crooning wearily. In front, far ahead, the artillery fire redoubled in intensity and the sky was lit by the brilliance of day.

      "Hell's loose out there," said the stranger. "It's not good to be there; it's not good to die."

      The stranger turned off the road and walked a few yards down a lane in the direction of the cottage.

      "I'm not going that way," said Fitzgerald coming to a halt. His companion stopped.

      "Afraid?" he said.

      "Afraid! H'm! I'm not afraid," the Irishman answered, nettled at the word. "All right, you go ahead. I'll follow."

      The man did not move. He fumbled in his pocket and brought something out, something dark, small and tipped at the points as if with silver. Fitzgerald imagined it to be a revolver and he slid his rifle forward so that its muzzle pointed at the man's body.

      "Hold your weapon up, you fool," said the stranger, and a note of concern was in his voice. "I've a pocket lamp here. We'll get off into the fields now and I'll light the way with this. The place is full of ponds and drains. Last night I fell into a hole somewhere about this place … you get off in front."

      "I'll follow," said Fitzgerald. "You lead the way."

      "All right," the man meekly responded. "Now we get off the road."

      He slipped into the field and the Irishman followed. Both were now near the cottage and they could see its bare rafters and ruined walls clearly. It looked gloomy and forbidding. … As Fitzgerald gazed at the cottage he saw a light close to the dark ground; a tremulous flame gleamed for a moment and was gone.

      "Did you see that?" asked the Irishman. "A light near the cottage?"

      "I saw nothing," said his companion.

      "You didn't see the flame. There's somebody in front. Friends of yours maybe."

      "I've no friends here. … You saw a light? … Nonsense!"

       "There, what is that?" asked the Irishman as he heard a thud as of somebody falling over a hurdle. "Did you not hear it?"

      "Yes, what is it?" asked the stranger extinguishing his torch. "I heard something. Shall I shout?"

      "Why?"

      "Why?" exclaimed the man. "Only to find out who's there. Hallo!" he yelled.

      Somebody answered with a loud "hallo!" and again a light gleamed in the darkness.

      "Who's there?" shouted the stranger.

      "It's us," came the answer. "Blurry well lost in this blurry 'ole. 'Oo are yer?"

      "Spudhole!" Fitzgerald shouted in a glad voice for he recognised the voice of his mate. "Is Bowdy and the sergeant with you?"

      "Oh! It's old Fitz," Spudhole exclaimed. "We're lost, the three o' us, and we don't know where we are. D'you know the way to the farm?"

      "We'll soon get there," Fitzgerald replied. "I've somebody with me who knows the way."

      "Bring 'im along 'ere then," said Bubb.

      Fitzgerald turned to his companion who had just moved to one side, but now he could not see him. On his right a dark form became one with the night and lost itself.

      "Hi!" Fitzgerald shouted. But there was no reply.

      "Hi there!" he cried in a louder voice, but no answer came back.

      "There was somebody with me but he's gone now," he said to Bubb when he reached him where he stood along with Benners and the sergeant beside a dark pond near the ruined cottage.

      "Well, we had better try and get back to our billet," the sergeant remarked. "Damn these beastly fields! We'll be damned unlucky if we don't get out o' 'em."

      They got into the farmhouse at eleven o'clock. All their mates were in bed and the watch-dog at the gate bit Bubb in the