Action Front | Page 9

no hand. They were probably due to the
circulation of the tale Macalister had told and demonstrated, and were
altogether above and beyond anything that usually happens to a
German prisoner. They need not be detailed, but apparently the most
serious of them was the removal of a portion of the black mud which

masked the German's face, so as to leave a diamond-shaped patch, of
staring cleanness over one eye, after the style of a music-hall star
known to fame as the White-eyed Kaffir; the ripping of a small portion
of that garment which permitted of the extraction of a dangling shirt
into a ridiculous wagging tail about a foot and a half long, and a
pressing invitation, accompanied by a hint from the bayonet point, to
give an exposition of the goose-step at the head of the other prisoners
whenever they and their escort were passing a sufficient number of
troops to form a properly appreciative audience. Probably a
Cockney-born Highlander was responsible for these pleasantries, as he
certainly was for the explanation he gave to curious inquirers.
"He's mad," he explained. "Mad as a coot; thinks he's the devil, and
insists on wagging his little tail. I have to keep him marching with his
hands up this way, because he might try to grab my rifle. Now, it's no
use you gritting your teeth and mumbling German swear words,
cherrybim. Keep your 'ands well up, and proceed with the goose-step."
But with all this Macalister had nothing to do. When he had returned as
nearly as he could the exact sufferings he had endured, he was quite
satisfied to let the matter drop. "I suppose," he said reflectively, when
the officer had gone, after giving him orders to see the prisoner back,
"as that finishes this play, we'll just need to treat ma lad here like an
ordinary preesoner. Has ony o' ye got a wee bit biscuit an' bully beef an'
a mouthful o' water t' gie the puir shiverin' crater!"

A BENEVOLENT NEUTRAL
" ... _the enemy temporarily gained a footing in a portion of our trench,
but in our counter-attack we retook this and a part of enemy trench
beyond_."--EXTRACT FROM OFFICIAL DESPATCH.
A wet night, a greasy road, and a side-slipping motor-bike provided the
means of an introduction between Second Lieutenant Courtenay of the
1st Footsloggers and Sergeant Willard K. Rawbon of the Mechanical
Transport branch of the A.S.C. The Mechanical Transport as a rule

extend a bland contempt to motor-cycles running on the road, ignoring
all their frantic toots of entreaty for room to pass, and leaving them to
scrape as best they may along the narrow margin between a deep and
muddy ditch and the undeviating wheels of a Juggernaut Mechanical
Transport lorry. But a broken-down motor-cycle meets with a very
different reception. It invariably excites some feeling compounded
apparently of compassion and professional interest to the cycle, and an
unlimited hospitality to the stranded cyclist.
This being well known to Second Lieutenant Courtenay, he, after
collecting himself, his cycle, and his scattered wits from the ditch and
conscientiously cursing the road, the dark, and the wet, duly turned to
bless the luck that had brought about an accident right at the doorstep
of a section of the Motor Transport. There were about ten massive
lorries drawn up close to the side of the road under the poplars, and
Courtenay made a direct line for one from which a chink of light
showed under the tarpaulin and sounds of revelry issued from a
melodeon and a rasping file. Courtenay pulled aside the flap, poked his
head in and found himself blinking in the bright glare of an acetylene
lamp suspended in the middle of a Mechanical Transport traveling
workshop. The walls--tarpaulin over a wooden frame--were closely
packed with an array of tools, and the floor was still more closely
packed with a work-bench, vice and lathe, spare motor parts, boxes,
and half a dozen men. The men were reading newspapers and
magazines; one was manipulating the melodeon, and another at the vice
was busy with the file. The various occupations ceased abruptly as
Courtenay poked his head in and explained briefly who he was and
what his troubles were.
"Thought you might be able to do something for me," he concluded,
and before he had finished speaking the man at the vice had laid down
his file and was reaching down a mackintosh from its hook. Courtenay
noticed a sergeant's stripes on his sleeve, and a thick and most
unsoldierly crop of hair on his head plastered back from the brow.
"Why sure," the sergeant said. "If she's anyways fixable, you reckon
her as fixed. Whereabouts is she ditched?"

Ten minutes later Courtenay was listening disconsolately to the list of
damages discovered by