But most of them walked stolidly on,
already too wet and wretched to mind the rain.
The fog had lifted. It was possible to see that sinister red streak
that follows the firing of a gun at night. The rain gave a peculiar
hollowness to the concussion. The Belgian and French batteries were
silent.
We seemed to have walked endless miles, and still there was no little
town. We went over a bridge, and on its flat floor I stopped and
rested my aching feet.
"Only a little farther now," said the British officer cheerfully.
"How much farther?"
"Not more than a mile,"
By way of cheering me he told me about the town we were
approaching--how the road we were on was its main street, and that the
advanced line of trenches crossed at the railroad near the foot of the
street.
"And how far from that are the German trenches?" I asked nervously.
"Not very far," he said blithely. "Near enough to be interesting."
On and on. Here was a barn.
"Is this the town?" I asked feebly.
"Not yet. A little farther!"
I was limping, drenched, irritable. But now and then the absurdity of
my situation overcame me and I laughed. Water ran down my head and off
my nose, trickled down my neck under my coat. I felt like a great
sponge. And suddenly I remembered my hat.
"I feel sure," I said, stopping still in the road, "that the chauffeur
will go inside the car out of the rain and sit on my hat.
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