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“Yep, I’m the fellow,” Tim answered modestly. “I’d disposed of the baboon that was coming in my direction and saw the one that was makin’ for your hole in the ground, and I said, says I, to myself: ‘Phil’s well able to take care o’ himself, but I don’t think he’ll be offended if I relieve his soul of the burden of slayin’ a man.’ So I pulled my trigger, and over went the villainous gink.”

“Good work,” Phil commended. “I won’t criticise you for failing to kill him, for you did far better than I did as it was. You’ve put at least two serfs of the kaiser out of business, and I didn’t even fire my gun at one.”

“What’ll we do with ’im?” asked Tim. “Pull ’im back behind the lines to wait till the Red Cross comes along?”

“No, we won’t pull him,” Phil returned more compassionately. “We’ll pick him up and carry ’im.”

“He doesn’t deserve any such gentle handling,” Tim objected stubbornly.

“It isn’t a question of what he deserves, but the kind of record we Americans want to leave behind us,” Phil replied earnestly. “You know how horrified we were by the sinking of the Lusitania and the atrocities in Belgium and northern France. Because of those atrocities we called the whole group of central allies Huns. Do we want to deserve the same title of reproach? Besides, the boches aren’t more than half responsible. They were brought up that way. A man can get in the habit of thinking anything that’s popular if he drifts with the current.”