“Ah!” he said, “that boy got to the bottom of the business. It’s for
the race. It’s for the race.”
“Are you a Christian?” I asked.
“No,” he answered; “but I should like to be one. I wasn’t brought up. I
grew up, and I grew up my own way, and my own way was the wrong way. I
go to church occasionally—if a friend is getting married. I know the
story of the Christian faith a little, but it has never really meant
anything to me.”
Then he continued slowly, “On the Somme, a few hours before I was badly
wounded”—he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little crucifix—“I
picked up that little crucifix and I put it in my pack, and when I got
to hospital I found that little crucifix on my table. One of the nurses
or the orderlies had put it there, thinking I was a Catholic. But I know
I’m not, sir. I am _nothing_. I have been looking at this little
crucifix so often since I was wounded, and I look at it till my eyes
fill with tears, because it reminds me of what He did for me—not this
little bit of metal, but what it means.”