Evidently he was very much troubled about Mr Halliday; and whenever he was troubled, he became impatient and angry, not with any particular individual, but with the nature of things, and the order of the universe. Mr Watkins had been killed outright, and there was no more to be said on that point, except that he was one of many good fellows. There was nothing perfunctory in that summary regret; it was keen and deep, but one could not pause on it. The case of Mr. Halliday was different. Bourne had seen him first with a slight wound in the arm, and had then seen him wounded again in the knee. Probably the bone was broken. That was in the German out-post line, and he had been left there in comparative shelter with other wounded who were helping each other. After that moment, nothing further was known of him, as they had no information of him having passed through any dressing-station. Moreover, the medical officer, after working all day, had taken the first opportunity to explore a great part of the ground, and to make sure, as far as that were possible, that no wounded had been left uncollected. Of course night and the shell-holes may not have yielded up all their secrets. The problem of Mr Halliday’s fate seemed insoluble. At last Captain Malet ceased to probe the mystery. He dropped it abruptly, and asked Bourne about himself, with a half humorous kindliness; then, the men having been dismissed, he walked off towards the orderly-room looking preoccupied and tired.

Shortly afterwards Captain Malet saw Corporal Tozer and asked him a good many questions about Bourne; and then a little later the corporal met the regimental, who also asked about Bourne, and added that he wished to see him when they had moved to Sand-pits. Corporal Tozer, finding that two separate lines of inquiry were converging on Bourne’s somewhat insignificant person, concluded that he was to be given a stripe, and he told him so, as they sat smoking together after dinner, giving him besides a full account of everything that had been said. Bourne had no ambition to become an acting lance-corporal, unpaid. He preferred the anonymity of the ranks. He wished that he had not taken down his crossed guns on coming overseas, for if Mr Manson had seen them on his sleeve, he would have been put in the snipers’ section, and whatever the trials and perils of a sniper’s life might be, it was solitary and, up to a point, inconspicuous. Bourne’s preferences were irrelevant to Corporal Tozer, who gave him good advice, which Bourne hoped was premature. The conversation flagged for a moment, and then Corporal Tozer took it up again.

‘Captain Malet’s not in a very good skin today,’ he said; ‘’e ’as to take over as adjutant, temp’ry; and there ain’t no bloody love lost between ’im an’ the O.C., I can tell you. An’ then, there’s another thing: that bloody old colour-sergeant in the orderly-room, if ’e got ’arf a chance o’ puttin’ a knife into the regimental ’e’d take it, dam’ quick, see? Well, you know what Captain Malet’s like. Oh, I’m not sayin’ anything against ’im; ’e knows a good man from a bad un, an’ you couldn’t wish for a better officer. But ’e doesn’t know ’ow bloody bad some o’ the bad uns can be. When you come to think of it in that way, Captain Malet ain’t got no more sense than a kid at school.’