from us. On the table there are two whiskey bottles, one empty and one just broached There’s a tin jug of water, a medley of glasses, piles of matches which are bring used as poker-chips and a dealt-out hand of cards.     

       My Major’s face, which is usually pale, is flushed tonight. His eyes are wrinkled and red about the edges; but the eyes themselves are like two blue pools of fire. As he catches sight of me, he raises his glass,       “We don’t know where we’re going, Chris. Everything’s secret. All we know is that we march tonight and that they’ve get a labour battalion digging graves for us somewhere behind the line. Oh yes, and a special lorry of Victoria Crosses has arrived at Corps. We’re storm-troops, my boy, and going to be in it right up to the neck. Wherever we march and whenever we fight, here’s the old toast, ‘Success to crime.’.rdquo;     

       I manage to let him know that our horses are outside and hint that it’s about time we were going.     

       “Time! There’s heaps of time,” he says. “We pulled our guns out early this evening. The battery is all packed and back at the wagon-lines. Heming will have it standing to when we arrive. Sit down and take a hand. God knows when we’ll get a chance of a round of poker again.”     

       My mind is not on the game. I’m losing steadily, but I don’t worry. The candles drip away in wax; others take their places. I scarcely see the cards; I watch only one face through the wreaths of tobacco-smoke—my gallant little Major’s. I would never have known him in peace life; neither of us would have considered the other quite his sort. He looks like a cross between a clown and an ostler. He’s very small and slight; his legs are bowed with too much riding. If one were to see him in       civilian dress, it would seem right that he should be chewing a straw. His face is white as death and terribly worn. His hair is sandy and thin in places. His teeth are filled with chunks of gold and not very regular. His uniforms are never smart; after he’s had them a week, they’re always torn and stained. He’s like a bantam cock; he makes up in spirit what he misses in height. He says “Good-bye” to his temper on the first provocation and is always most handsomely sorry afterwards. He’s adored and dreaded by his men. He’s the best field-gunner for open warfare in the whole Canadian Corps. His superior officers twit and admire him. He has 

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