“Haemorrhage.” The terrified Jimmie did not even know what that was. There was nothing he could do but sit there, holding his friend's trembling hand and listening to his moans. When the train stopped, Jimmie sprang out and rushed to one of the brakemen, who came with his lantern, and saw “Wild Bill” lying in a pool of blood, already so far gone that he could not lift his head. “Jesus!” exclaimed the brakeman. “He's a goner, all right.” The “goner” was trying to say something, and Jimmie leaned his ear down to him. “Good-bye, old pal,” whispered Bill. That was all, but it caused Jimmie to burst out sobbing. The engine whistled. “What the hell you stiffs doin' on this train?” demanded the brakeman--but not so harshly as the words would indicate. He lifted the dying man--no very serious burden--and laid him on the platform of the station. “Sorry,” he said, “but we're behind schedule.” He waved his lantern, and the creaking cars began to move, and the train drew away, leaving Jimmie sitting by the corpse of his pal. The world seemed a lonely place that long night. In the morning the station-agent came, and notified the nearest authorities, and in the course of the day came a wagon to fetch the body. What was the use of Jimmie's waiting? One “Potter's field” was the same as another, and there would be nothing inspiring about the funeral. The man who drove the wagon looked at Jimmie suspiciously and asked his age; they were scarce of labour in that country, he said-the rule was “Work or fight”. Jimmie foresaw another session with a draft-board, so he leaped on to another freight train, taking with him as a legacy “Wild Bill's” diary of the unemployed army. IV It was harvest-time, and Jimmie went West to the wheat country. It was hard work, but the pay made your eyes bulge. Jimmie realized that war was not such a bad thing--for the ones that stayed at home! If you didn't like one farmer's way of speaking to you, or the kind of biscuits his wife offered you, you could move on to the next, and he would take you in at four bits more per day. It was the nearest approach to a working-man's paradise that Jimmie had ever encountered. There was really only one drawback--the pestiferous draft-boards that never stopped snooping round. They were for ever hauling you up and threatening and questioning you--putting you through the same scene over and over. Why couldn't the fools give you a card, showing that you had been through the mill, and let that settle it? But no, they wouldn't give you a card--they preferred to go on jacking you up because you had no card. It was all a trick, thought Jimmie, to wear him out and force him into their army by hook or by crook. But here was one time when they would not get away with it!