A shell fell bursting . . . \Miere the butter went, God only knew ! . . .
And Dick ... lie dared not think Of what had come to Dick ... or what it meant —
The shrieking and the whistling and the stink He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'Twas luck That he still lived . . . And queer how little then He seemed to care that Dick . . . Perhaps 'twas
pluck That hardened him — a man among the men — Perhaps . . . Yet, only think things out a bit. And he was rabbit-li\xTed, blue with funk ! And he'd liked Dick . . . and yet when Dick was
hit, He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk He should have thought would feel it when his mate Was blown to smithereens — Dick, proud as punch, Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate — But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb.
Perhaps 'twas just because he dared not let His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. He dared not now, though he could not forget.
Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 'twas luck From first to last ; and you'd just got to trust
�� �
