He dropped, —— more sullenly¹ than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod², heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet； Just blinked at my revolver, blearily； —— Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench³ at which he stared. "I'll do 'em in," he whined⁴, "If this hand's spared, I'll murder them, I will."

    A low voice said, "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees； his pluck's all gone, Dreaming of all the valiant⁵, that AREN'T dead： Bold uncles, smiling ministerially； Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun In some new home, improved materially. It's not these stiffs have crazed him； nor the Hun."

    We sent him down at last, out of the way. Unwounded； —— stout⁶ lad, too, before that strafe. Malingering？ Stretcher-bearers winked⁷, "Not half！" Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh： "That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray！"