Germans out like chaff and fell back into the lost trenches—all save one little party, who paused at the sight in front of them. There stood O’Flannigan astride the colonel, who was mortally wounded. They heard rather than saw the blow that fetched home on the head of a Prussian officer—almost simultaneously with the crack of his revolver. They saw him go down with a crushed skull, while the big earthenware jar shivered to pieces. They saw O’Flannigan stagger a little and then look round—still with the top of the rum jar in his hand.
“You are back,” he cried. “It is well, but the rum is gone.”
And then the colonel spoke. He was near death and wandering. “The regiment has never yet lost a trench. Has it, O’Flannigan, you scoundrel?” And he peered at him.
“It has not, sorr,” answered the Irishman.
“I thought,” muttered the dying officer, “there were Prussians in here a moment ago.”
“They were, sorr, but they were not liking it, so they went.”
Suddenly the colonel raised himself on his elbow. “What’s the matter with you,
