“Only lost”—­that seems to me great.

Above the postcard on the business notice-board the chief wrote:  “The pluckiest piece of writing that has ever reached this office.”  And by that he stands.

At Treport Sydney Baxter has his last experience of the Y.M.C.A. in France.

“One of its members came round the ward, speaking cheery words and offering to write home for us.  It sounds a small work, but it was a boon to those of us too weak for even a postcard, or those who had lost or injured their right arms.  The nurses are far too busy and cannot do it, and other patients are in a like condition.  I always looked out for that gentleman of the Y.M.  I was not allowed to read or sit up, and the days dragged horribly.  Thursday evening came and many were sent to Blighty.  I worried the doctor as to when I should go, and always received the non-committal reply, ‘When you are fit to travel.’  Saturday, however, found me on board of a hospital ship, and at 9 o’clock that night we arrived at Southampton.  Ant-like, the stretcher-bearers went to and fro, from ship to train.  For some reason or other they dumped me in a corner with my head nearest the scene of activities, so that I was unable to interest myself in watching the entraining of others.  I feverishly hoped they wouldn’t forget me and put me in the wrong train.  I was not forgotten by one person, however.  He was not an official, not a R.A.M.C. man—­no, just a Y.M.C.A. man, ministering to our comfort, lighting cigarettes for the helpless, arranging pillows, handing chocolate to a non-smoker, with a smile and a cheery word for every one.  He asked me where I lived and spoke cheerily to me of soon seeing my mother and friends, and then left on a like errand to another chap.  This, as I look back, was typical of all the work of the Y.M.C.A.  Its helpers are always at the right place doing the right thing.  That is why they have earned Tommy’s undying gratitude.”

Next day this one young man was being tenderly and graciously cared for in a hospital in Wales.  He had finished his bit.  To the office he wrote: 

July 12th, 1916.

     “The Hun has put me completely out of action, and I hope
     within a few months to be amongst you all again—­for good,
     and certainly in time for the autumn session.

“The sight of my right eye has completely gone out, but as long as the left one keeps as it is I shall not be seriously handicapped.  My glass eye will be an acceptable ornament.  The left hand will mend in time; when healed, it will be pushed and squeezed into its original shape.  Apart from the wounds I feel very well, and my rapid recovery has surprised all.  The first three days in France were critical, and mother was sent for.  However, I pulled through and feel as active as ever—­at least, I do whilst in bed.”

The hole in Sydney Baxter’s nut—­I use his own phrase—­is healing.  His hand has been more than once under the surgeon’s knife, and he can now wear a glove with cotton-wool stuffed into two of the fingers.  He sees fairly well from the unbandaged side of his face.