"Always said she was a mule, sir," exclaimed the driver. "Either she won\'t fire or else she back-fires when you don\'t expect it. Did you cop it, sir?"

Derek, with the jagged ends of a compound fractured bone threatening to push through the skin, was compelled to admit that he had.

Apart from the acute pain, it was galling to realize that, after coming through a beautiful crash and spending the best part of the day and night under machine-gun fire in a shell-hole with nothing worse than a slight flesh-wound in the forehead, it was his very hard luck to be crocked up by a mere back-fire, especially as he had been careless enough to grasp the handle in the wrong way.

"Rotten night\'s work," grumbled the driver, as he liberally dosed his wound with iodine. "Where\'s that there Corporal, sir? Good Lord, he\'s copped it, too!"

He bent over the unfortunate N.C.O.

"Dead as mutton," he announced nonchalantly. There was no surprise in his tone. Three years of living cheek by jowl with sudden death in all sorts of terrible forms had blunted his feelings. "Poor bloke! And it might have been a Blighty for him, too—same as me. \'Ere, mate!"

A man bending under the weight of a coil of wire was slouching past. At the hail he threw his burden down, glad of the opportunity to ease his aching shoulders.

"What\'s up?" he asked.

The driver explained.

"Fat lot you knows about an engine," remarked the new-corner. "That\'s why they put you in the M.T. And I\'ve been driving motor-lorries all over Yorkshire and Lancashire these ten years. There\'s not a blinking motor that I can\'t master, and yet they shove me in the bloomin\', foot-slogging infantry. Chronic, I calls it."

"Don\'t want to hear about your qualifications," broke in the driver with acerbity. "What I want is a practical demonstration."

Then realizing that it was hardly the style to adopt when a favour was required he added:

"\'Course it was rough luck on you, mate; but I can\'t help it, can I? Now be a sport and get the old mule a-going, and I think I can find a whole packet of fags in my greatcoat pocket. Crikey! That was a near \'un," he ejaculated, as a shell burst about a hundred yards away and slightly to the left of the road. "Jerry\'s putting a lot of stuff over tonight."

"Sure you\'ve got the fags?" enquired the newcomer cautiously. The prospect of getting hold of a packet of cigarettes interested him far more than did the Boche shells. Like the poor, German shells were always present; cigarettes were not.

"Feel in my pockets," said the driver. "They\'re yours as soon as you get the blessed engine to fire."

The man was about to do so when in the reflected glare of a star-shell he caught sight of the driver\'s hastily-applied bandage.

"By gum, you\'ve been hit, lad!" he exclaimed. "Why didn\'t you say so, instead of offering me fags? Reckon as you\'ll want \'em more\'n me, so here goes."

A deft manipulation of throttle and spark, a short rapid jerk of the hitherto refractory cranking-handle, and the engine began throbbing with renewed activity.

Before the driver could hand over the promised guerdon his benefactor settled matters by lifting him easily and gently into the seat. Derek, feeling sick and giddy with the pain of his broken arm, took his seat beside the driver, while the Tommy, slinging his bundle across his shoulders, ambled off into the darkness.

To Derek the journey was a nightmare. Racked with pain, hungry, thirsty, and dead tired, he was hardly conscious of the jolting, swaying vehicle, of the crump of heavy shells that were constantly searching the lines of communication, of the numerous halts owing to the congestion of traffic. Whether it was five miles, or fifty, he had not the remotest idea. All he did was to wedge the shoulder of his unwounded arm into the angle formed by the tilt and the front of the tender, and trust that he would not be flung from his seat by the terrific bumps as the battle-scarred vehicle literally bounded over the uneven road.

He was practically unconscious when deft arms assisted him from the car. He could hear voices sounding dim and far-away. Then he was faintly aware that he was in an underground retreat of vast size that smelt of iodine and ether; a lot of—to him—unnecessary man-handling, a struggle for breath, and then merciful oblivion.

Upon recovering consciousness Derek found himself at a base hospital. His arm had been set in splints, while his forehead was swathed in surgical bandages. It was the second stage of his journey to Blighty.

Three days later he was placed on board a hospital ship at Boulogne. His arm was making very satisfactory progress, and he was able to walk up the gangway unassisted; but, shortly after arriving on the other side, he made his first acquaintance with hospital red tape.

A short train journey brought him to Minterton Station, the nearest place by rail to Tollerby Military Hospital.

Greatly to Derek\'s surprise he found a nurse, several orderlies, and an ambulance waiting for him.

"But I can walk quite all right," protested the patient.

"No doubt," was the reply, "but you must go in the ambulance; it\'s routine."

Nor did "routine" end there, for on arriving at the hosp............