Swiftly and silently along the quiet, winding road sped the dispatch-rider. Away from the ocean he was hurrying, where the great ships were coming in, each a fulfilment and a challenge; away from scenes of debarkation where Uncle Sam was pouring his endless wealth of courage and determination into bleeding, suffering, gallant France.

Past the big hotel he went, past the pleasant villa, through village and hamlet, and farther and farther into the East, bound for the little corner of the big salient whence he had come.

He bore with him a packet and some letters. One was to be left at Neufchatel; others at Breteuil. There was one in particular for Cantigny. His name was mentioned in it, but he did not know that. He never concerned himself with the contents of his papers.

So he sped along, thinking how he would get a new headlight for Uncle Sam and a new mud-guard. He thought the people back at Cantigny would wonder what had happened to his machine. He had no thought of telling them. There was nothing to tell.

Swiftly and silently along the road he sped, the dispatch-rider who had come from the blue hills of Alsace, all the way across poor, devastated France. The rays of the dying sun fell upon the handle-bar of Uncle Sam, which the rider held in the steady, fraternal handshake that they knew so well. Back from the coast they sped, those two, along the winding road which lay on hill and in valley, bathed in the mellow glow of the first twilight. Swiftly and silently they sped. Hills rose and fell, the fair panorama of the lowlands with its quaint old houses here and there opened before them. And so they journeyed on into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy and Flanders—for service as required.

(END)