It made Macgregor think of a big dog searching for
its master--only it wore a helmet. Macgregor, setting his teeth,
drew his rifle between his knees and unfixed the bayonet. . . .
'Hist! Is that you, Macgreegor?'
'Wullie!'
'Whisht, ye----!'
'Oh, Wullie'--in a whisper--'I'm gled to see ye!'
'I believe ye!' gasped Willie, and flattened out at his friend's
side, breathing heavily. At the end of a minute or so--'Ha'e ye
got it bad, Macgreegor?' he inquired.
'So, so. Arm an' leg. I'm feelin' rotten, but I'm no fini shed
yet. Ha'e ye ony water? Ma bottle's shot through.'
'Here ye are. . . . Feelin' seeck-like?'
'I'm seeck at gettin' knocked oot at the vera beginnin.'
'Never heed. Did ye kill yer man?'
'Ay.'
'Same here. . . . In the back. . . . Ma Goad!'
'Ha'e we ta'en their trench?'
'Ay; but no enough o' us to baud it.
We're back in the auld place. Better luck next time. No safe to
strike a match here; could dae fine wi' a fag.'
There was a silence between them, broken at last by Macgregor.
'Hoo did ye find me, Wullie? What way are ye no back in the
trench?'
'Wasna gaun back wi'oot ye--I seen ye drap--even if ye had been a
corp. . . . Been snokin' aroun' seekin' ye for Guid kens hoo lang.
I'm fair hingin' wi' glaur.'
'. . . I'm obleeged to ye, Wullie, but ye shouldna ha'e done it.
Whauraboots are we?'
'I wisht I was sure. Lost ma bearin's. I doobt we're nearer the
Germans nor oor ain lot.
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