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A youthful Manchester schoolmaster, Lieutenant W. T. Forshaw, held his trench against attacks for forty-five hours. For forty-one of those hours he was continuously throwing bombs and only desisted when his arm became temporarily paralyzed. When, finally, the Turks swarmed into his trench, revolver in hand he led his wearied troops and drove them out.
Mark was so much delighted by this letter that he went off at once to call on Mr. Forshaw, but did not find him at home; he was amused to hear from the housekeeper that his reverence had been summoned to an interview with the Bishop of Kidderminster. Mark fancied that it would be the prelate who would have the unpleasant quarter of an hour.
It was after they left Immering that this ramble, properly speaking, became scandalous. The sun was already a golden ball above the blue hills in the west it turned our two young people into little figures of flame and yet, instead of going homeward, they took the Wentworth road that plunges into the Forshaw woods.
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