"Not me, sarge! I always said the blighter was a blinkin' spy!" replied the groom.--_J. Musgrave (late 175th Infantry Brigade), 52 Cedar Grove, South Ealing, W.5._ Not Every Dog has his Night Our battalion arrived in a French village late on the night of September 25, 1915, after marching all day in pouring rain. To add to our troubles no billets were available (the place was teeming with reserve troops for the attack at Loos). We were told to find some sort of shelter from the rain and get a good night's rest, as we were to move up to the attack on the morrow. My chum, a Londoner, and I scouted round. I found room for one in an already overcrowded stable; my chum continued the search. He returned in a few minutes to tell me he had found a spot. I wished him good night and went to sleep. In the morning, when I came out of the stable, I saw the long legs of a Guardsman (who proved to be my chum) protruding from a dog kennel. Beside them sat a very fed-up dog!--_F. Martin (late 1st Batt. Scots Guards), 91 Mostyn Road, Brixton, S.W._ [Illustration: "...A very fed-up dog."] The Brigadier's Glass Eye A brigadier of the 54th Infantry Brigade (18th Division), who had a glass-eye, and his Cockney runner, were on their way up the line when they observed a dead German officer who had a very prominent gold tooth. The next day, passing by the same spot, the Brigadier noticed that the gold tooth was missing. "I see that his gold tooth has gone, Johnson," he said. "Yessir." "I suppose someone will take my glass eye, if I am knocked out." "Yessir. I've put meself dahn fer that, fer a souvenir!"--_W. T. Pearce, "Southernhay," Bethune Avenue, Friern Barnet, N.11._ The Chaplain-General's Story In June 1917 I shared a G.H.Q. car with the Chaplain-General to the Forces, Bishop Gwynne, who was on his way from St. Omer to Amiens, whilst I was on my way to the Third Army School at Auxi-le-Château. During the journey our conversation turned to chaplains, and the bishop asked me whether I thought the chaplains then coming to France were of the right type, especially from the point of view of the regimental officers and men. My reply was that the chaplains as a whole differed very little from any other body of men in France: they were either men of the world and very human, and so got on splendidly with the troops, or else they were neither the one nor the other, cut very little ice, and found their task a very difficult one. The Bishop then told me the following story, which he described as perfectly true: "A chaplain attached to a London regiment made a practice of always living in the front line whenever the battalion went in to the trenches rather than remaining with Battalion Headquarters some way back, and he had his own dug-out over which appeared the words 'The Vicarage.'