Addison, of the Hants, is gone; he met his end in the village of Sed-el-Bahr. He was leading his men, firing right and left with his revolver. He met a Turk coming round the corner of a street; he pulled the trigger of his revolver: nothing happened. He opened it, found it empty, threw it to the ground with a curse, went for the Turk with his fist, but was met by a well-aimed bomb, which exploded in his face, killing him instantly. It sounds horrible, but it is war these days. Perhaps I am over-sensitive, but a lump comes to my throat as I write this, for just over a month ago Addison and I used to talk about books at the “Warwick Arms,” Warwick, and the sight of him reading with glasses, smoking his pipe before the fire of an evening, is still fresh in my memory. It would have been hard to believe then that such a quiet, reserved soul would meet his end fighting like a raging lion in the bloody streets of Sed-el-Bahr a few weeks later. But that has now actually happened, and similar ends will meet like brave men again and again before this war is over. A little amusing diversion is caused in the afternoon of to-day by a hare running across the beach, chased by French “poilus,” and being very nearly rounded up. At 5 p.m. while making up my accounts for the day, I hear from the Asiatic side the boom of a gun, followed by a sound not unlike the tearing of linen, ending in a scream and explosion. Not very big shells, and the first, so far, that I have experienced on shore. I look towards Asia and see a flash in the blue haze of the landscape there, and over comes another, dropping in the sea near the _Clyde_. They follow quickly in succession, and each time I see the flash, I duck with my three stalwart henchmen behind our little redoubt of supplies, proof only against splinters. The nearest falls but twenty yards away, and does not explode. I see through my glasses two destroyers creep up towards the enemy’s shores and fire rapid broadsides. After a few of these we are left in peace.