He had made me promise that if ever anything should happen to the wayward Kelly who should have been, but wasn't, a regular attendant at his church parades, I should send at once for him. I had done so as soon as I saw that poor Kelly was hard hit. I laid Kelly's hand gently down and slipped away. I was called hurriedly back a few minutes later by the padre. "He wants you, doctor," he said briefly. Kelly's eyes met mine. His were getting dim. As I took his hand, his fingers feebly gripped mine. I bent my head to catch the whispered words that issued from his lips: "Good-by, docthor; Oi'm lavin' fer the great beyant. There's no use grumblin' an' Oi don't, fer Oi've had a full loife--me frinds often said too full, but sure they didn't know," with the faint smile. "But since that day whin ye showed me the picture ye carry over yer heart of yer three foine little byes--God bliss thim--Oi've wanted, whin the war was over, to go back wid ye and see thim. Will ye do me a favor, docthor, boy?" His voice was growing feeble. The tears were flowing unheeded down my cheeks. I could not speak, so I squeezed his hand in assent. "Will ye talk to thim sometimes of Kelly? An' tell thim that wid all me faults Oi loved their daddy an' troied to sarve him well; an' that if Oi was sure me death would cause ye to be taken safely back to thim, Oi'd doie happy an' contint. God bless ye an' thim an'----" His voice died away, his dim eyes closed, and his soul passed into "that undiscovered bourne from which no traveler returns." That night the padre and I buried him in a shellhole, erecting over his grave a little wooden cross on which we wrote: PRIVATE JAMES KELLY NUMBER A59000, --st CANADIAN BATTALION. A LOYAL, GENEROUS, FAITHFUL, SOLDIER AND FRIEND CHAPTER V THE LANGUAGE OF THE LINE Talleyrand once wittily said that language was given us to hide our thoughts, and this saying might be enlarged by adding that slang was given us to hide our language. The Frenchman, in making this witticism, was referring not only to the beautiful language of Corneille and Molière, but to speech in general. However, if he visited the lines of the Canadian or British troops today, even though his knowledge of English were perfect, he would hear many words and expressions not found in the dictionaries of any country or heard in polite society. Necessity is the mother of invention. It seems that in all national or international games, such as the sport of our American allies--baseball--or the sport of kings and emperors--war--necessity demands that a special language shall evolve. And so, around each and in the midst of each, an expressive, though sometimes inelegant, slang has grown up, understood and employed only by the initiated. In the case of the present war this slang is made up of a mixture of English, French, pantomime, and American or Canadian.