rifle—and that made a mighty difference toward the end of a thirty-mile march.
At the end of the next halt, the Grasshopper declared that he could not get up…. At the command, "Fall in!" the unfortunate man did not stir.
"Kind God! What shall I do?" he groaned. It was his first failure as a soldier.
"Come on, my lad," said John Bull sharply. "Here, pull off his kit," he added and unfastened the Belgian's belt. Between them they pulled him to his feet and dragged him to his place in the ranks. John Bull took his pack, the Bucking Bronco his belt and its appurtenances, and Feodor his rifle. His eyes were closed and he sank to the ground.
"Here," said Rupert to 'Erb. "Get in his place and let him march in yours beside me. We'll hold him up."
"Give us yer rifle, matey," replied 'Erb, and left Rupert with hands free to assist the Grasshopper.
With his right arm round the Belgian's waist, he helped him along, while John Bull insisted on having the poor fellow's right hand on his left shoulder.
On tramped the Legion.
Before long, almost the whole weight of the Grasshopper's body was on Rupert's right arm and John Bull's left shoulder.
"Stick to it, my son," said the latter from time to time, "we are sure to stop at the fifty-kilometre stone."
The Belgian seemed to be semiconscious, and did not reply. His feet began to drag, and occasionally his two comrades bore his full weight for a few paces. Every few yards Feodor looked anxiously round.
