But my guard suddenly remembered something, and went into another hut, bringing back the uniform of “D.  Smith, Vancouver.”  The name was written on the band of the trousers.  D. Smith had died the day before, from lung trouble.  The uniform had been disinfected, and hung in wrinkles.  My face had the hospital pallor, and, with my long hair and beard, I know I looked “snaggy” like a potato that has been forgotten in a dark corner of the cellar.

When we came out of the lazaret, the few people we met on the road to the prison-camp broke into broad grins; some even turned and looked after us.

CHAPTER V

THE PRISON-CAMP

The guard took me to Camp 6, Barrack A, where I found some of the boys I knew.  They were in good spirits, and had fared in the matter of food much the same as I had.  We agreed exactly in our diagnosis of the soup.

I was shown my mattress and given two blankets; also a metal bowl, knife, and fork.

Outside the hut, on the shady side, I went and sat down with some of the boys who, like myself, were excused from labor.  Dent, of Toronto, was one of the party, and he was engaged in the occupation known as “reading his shirt”—­and on account of the number of shirts being limited to one for each man, while the “reading” was going on, he sat in a boxer’s uniform, wrapped only in deep thought.

Now, it happened that I did not acquire any “cooties” while I was in the army, and of course in the lazaret we were kept clean, so this was my first close acquaintanceship with them.  My time of exemption was over, though, for by night I had them a-plenty.

I soon found out that insect powder was no good.  I think it just made them sneeze, and annoyed them a little.  We washed our solitary shirts regularly, but as we had only cold water, it did not kill the eggs, and when we hung the shirt out in the sun, the eggs came out in full strength, young, hearty, and hungry.  It was a new generation we had to deal with, and they had all the objectionable qualities of their ancestors, and a few of their own.

Before long, the Canadian Red Cross parcels began to come, and I got another shirt—­a good one, too, only the sleeves were too long.  I carefully put in a tuck, for they came well over my hands.  But I soon found that these tucks became a regular rendezvous for the “cooties,” and I had to let them out.  The Red Cross parcels also contained towels, toothbrushes, socks, and soap, and all these were very useful.

After a few weeks, with the lice increasing every day, we raised such a row about them that the guards took us to the fumigator.  This was a building of three rooms, which stood by itself in the compound.  In the first room we undressed and hung all our clothes, and our blankets too, on huge hooks which were placed on a sliding framework.  This framework was then pushed into the oven and the clothes were thoroughly baked.  We did not let our boots, belts, or braces go, as the heat would spoil the leather.  We then walked out into the next room and had a shower bath, and after that went into the third room at the other side of the oven, and waited until the framework was pushed through to us, when we took our clothes from the hooks and dressed.