For the benefit of the cook I informed him that Scotty was a damned
liar; that it was I who had been with him; that he ran like a
white-livered cur under fire from his cookhouse and didn't stop until he
had reached the wagon lines; that he was there without being relieved
and that he would shortly have another tale to tell.
I hastened to the dugout he had indicated as Scotty's retreat and found
him in the innermost corner, pretending to be asleep; he didn't answer
until I called him three or four times.
"Scotty, the O.C. wants to know why you left the cookhouse without guard
permitting some Algerians to eat up his bacon and stuff, and, further,
why you ran away under fire. You are in for hell as sure as there is
heather in your hair." His countenance took on a greenish hue and he
mumbled something about being shell-shocked and refused to come. I
persuaded him, however, to come over to the Quartermaster of the wagon
line, and that officer asked him what he was doing there.
"Weel,--I was wounded and couldna' fight anither stroke; I was jeest
tired oot wi' killin' Boches and hadna' the strength to stand anither
minute; I jeest had to get away.
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