straight to any slacker whose eye now rests on this page—if he hasn't already chucked this little volume into the fire)—what right have you, you little white-livered cur, you slimy maggot—what right have you to wear the dress and ape the bearing of a _man_? What will you say to the _men_ when they return from doing their bit—when they ask why _you_ didn't roll up and help them in their need? That you were a conscientious objector? That you didn't believe in shedding human blood? That you had to stay at home—and make money—while _they_ were fighting and sweating that the old home might not be polluted by the shadow of the German beasts, the ravishers of poor little Belgium? Well, you can say what you like. But I know what they will call you—a name that no man worth calling a man ever takes unchallenged from his fellows—what I call you right now: COWARD! I was going to add: What will you say to your children when they ask you what _you_ did in The Great War? But surely no woman will ever call you husband and bear your children! If such women are to be found, and I only had the power, I'd emasculate you all rather than see your dirty breed perpetuated. That's some more straight Australasian. But to come back to the matter in hand, as the public tub-thumpers say—— I got in the way of some bullets. I didn't want to, but they were flying round pretty lively and I bagged a few—one through the arm, another through the shoulder (it's still sticking somewhere down under the blade), two pieces of explosive bullet in my right hand (still there and letting me know it when I write), plus an assortment of small splinters distributed round about my figure-head. My left ear is gone; I don't sleep too well; there is a fitter's shop doing great work day and night in my head, and when I walk out to take the air things are apt to spin round some, and I fancy the dear old ladies imagine I suffer from chronic alcoholism. Altogether I don't feel quiet as good as I did before I went on tour with the Anzacs. Neither did the medical board, so they're giving me the tin-ware. Funny thing: my appetite is quite good, and I look as strong as a horse. Hence the aforesaid old ladies are always telling how well I look, and hoping I am _quite_ recovered from my wounds. At first this sort of thing used to bore me; now, however, it only amuses me. It's a boncer gift is the saving grace of humour, and keeps a fellow from getting into the blues when he compares the man he was once with the man he is now. However, that's by the way.