“Here,” he roared.  “Don’t you know enough to salute your superior officer?  Salute!” I gingerly raised my hand to my forehead and held it there, much after the fashion, I think, of a man shading his eyes from the sun, or a nautical chap gazing intently seaward.

“You idiot!” he bellowed, as he grabbed my hand and fiercely flung it down.  “Don’t you know how to salute?  Here, do this”—­and he saluted.  I followed as well as I was able, but the utter disgust that was plastered all over his visage as he turned on his heel would not have left much hope for soldierly qualifications in one any less hopeful and enthusiastic than I was.

My sister, in spite of her tears, could not keep back the smile as I again kissed her good-by.

It was about noon next day when I reached Valcartier and after a month of solid work, the like of which I had never before experienced, I was as hard as a nail, and as tough, as indeed was every man in that honor division of Canada’s expeditionary forces.

We received orders to leave for England on the 14th day of September, 1914.  I was detailed on a gun limber of my subsection of the First Battery, the artillery being the arm of the service to which I was assigned.  Starting about 4:30 in the afternoon, in torrents of rain, we headed for the city of Quebec.  Along the way the people had thoughtfully built large bonfires on either side of the road, serving the double purpose of lighting our way during the night and enabling us to jump off and warm ourselves, as we were thoroughly chilled.

The road was in a horribly bad condition and the rain did not improve it any, and while the limber was lurching from side to side, like a ship staggering in a storm, it was the better part of wisdom for me to keep my eyes open to save myself from being thrown off and having my precious neck broken.

To prevent in some measure the rain trickling down my neck, I took a rubber sheet, used to cover the horses, tied the two corners together, making a sort of cape of it, and put it round my neck.

Then I settled myself down to hold on to the limber and think at the same time of the great game of which I had become an infinitesimal part.  I was sitting on the right hand side of the limber close to the wheel and, before long, the effort to think and hold on at the same time was too much for me, and I fell into a fairly sound sleep, Sergeant Johnson, my companion, doing likewise.

While dozing, the string from the end of the cape engaged itself with the axle, wound itself round and round and started pulling me down.  When I awoke it had a grip on me and every moment I was being drawn closer to the wheel.  I yelled to the driver to stop the horse, but the rattling and rumble of the limber and the gun carriage drowned my call; neither he nor the Sergeant heard me.  Numb with cold, absolutely helpless, my head almost down to the wheel, I gave one more yell for dear life.  The Sergeant