the old graveyard on the cliff above us. Then, touching my elbow, he turned away with me toward the little hamlet across the moors. "Let us find the Curé," he murmured. "We men of the sea should salute the death God sends with the respect we owe to all His gifts to man." Our three gigantic shadows led us back across the moor,—my dog, myself, and the gray-eyed silent man who knew the sea, and something perhaps, of the sea's Creator:-and much of his fellow WE JIM-A SOLDIER OF THE KING E WERE machine gunners of the British Army stationed "Somewhere in France" and had just arrived at our rest billets, after a weary march from the front line sector. The stable we had to sleep in was an old, ramshackle affair, absolutely over-run with rats. Great, big, black fellows, who used to chew up our leather equipment, eat our rations, and run over our bodies at night. German gas had no effect on these rodents; in fact, they seemed to thrive on it. The floor space would comfortably accommodate about twenty men lying down, but when thirty-three, including equipment, were crowded into it, it was nearly unbearable. The roof and walls were full of shell holes. When it rained, a constant drip, drip, drip was in order. We were so crowded that if a fellow was unlucky enough (and nearly all of us in this instance were unlucky) to sleep under a hole, he had to grin and bear it. It was like sleeping beneath a shower bath. At one end of the billet, with a ladder leading up to it, was a sort of grain bin, with a door in it. This place was the headquarters of our guests, the rats. Many a stormy cabinet meeting was held there by them. Many a boot was thrown at it during the night to let them know that Tommy Atkins objected to the matter under discussion. Sometimes one of these missiles would ricochet, and land on the upturned countenance of a snoring Tommy, and for about half an hour even the rats would pause in admiration of his flow of language. On the night in question we flopped down in our wet clothes, and were soon asleep. As was usual, No. 2 gun's crew were together. The last time we had rested in this particular village, it was inhabited by civilians, but now was deserted. An order had been issued, two days previous to our arrival, that all civilians should move farther back of the line. I had been asleep about two hours when I was awakened by Sailor Bill shaking me by the shoulder. He was trembling like a leaf, and whispered to me: There's some one aloft Sounds like the wind in “Wake up, Yank, this ship's haunted. who's been moaning for the last hour. the rigging. I ain't scared of humans or Germans, but when it comes to messin' in with spirits it's time for me to go below. Lend your ear and cast your deadlights on that grain locker, and listen." I listened sleepily for a minute or so, but could hear nothing. Coming to the conclusion that Sailor Bill was dreaming things, I was again soon asleep. Perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed when I was rudely awakened. "Yank, for God's sake, come aboard and listen!" I listened, and sure enough, right out of that grain bin overhead came a moaning and whimpering, and then a scratching against the door. My hair stood on end. Blended with the drip, drip of the rain, and the occasional scurrying of a rat overhead, that noise had a supernatural sound. I was really frightened; perhaps my nerves were a trifle unstrung from our recent tour in the trenches. I awakened "Ikey" Honney, while Sailor Bill roused "Happy" Houghton and "Hungry" Foxcroft. Hungry's first words were, "What's the matter, breakfast ready?" In as few words as possible, we told them what had happened. By the light of a candle I had lighted, their faces appeared as white as chalk. Just then the whimpering started again, and we were frozen with terror. The tension was relieved by Ikey's voice: |