A couple of men who could walk volunteered to go in search of the organ, but they couldn't find it. Then Sister Brian, a most accommodating nurse, whose Cockney accent was an unmistakable mark of her early upbringing, went out to locate the missing organ. After a few minutes she returned and startled the ward by announcing, from the doorway: "You men 'ad hall better go to 'Hell' (meaning _L_ ward). Th' horgan's in 'Hell,' an' th' services habout to begin." There was a general roar of laughter and the reverend gentleman strenuously refused the invitation. When the patients were well on the road to recovery, they would be sent to one of the many mansions opened by the owners as homes for convalescents. Here they would remain for a few weeks, perhaps a month, before being sent to their homes. This stay will be among the pleasantest memories of those who experienced it. The beautifully-laid-out and spacious grounds and the auto rides! How it all helped to hasten recovery! I cannot conclude without trying to express the praise which most certainly belongs to the medical officers of "Craigleith." At the outbreak of the war, Colonel Cottrill had been retired ten years, but he was found ready when the first note of the nation's rally sounded, and there he remained when I left, serving his king and country in relieving, by his expert skill, the sufferings of those who come under his care. He was over seventy years of age, but he most truly was seventy years young. Of the nurses and sisters I could not say enough. Sister Lauder, for instance; I have seen her do thirty-six hours' duty at one stretch, without the slightest rest, at a time when streams of wounded were pouring in day and night. Once she collapsed in the middle of the ward. Such devotion, such wonderful spirit these women exhibited! I was discharged on August 5th, 1915, being "no longer physically fit for war service." (Para. 392, XVI, K.R.) CHAPTER FIFTEEN On a day in February, 1916--a week prior to the sailing of the S.S. _Tuscania_, on which I had taken passage to the United States--I had left the office of the Anchor Line and was proceeding up the High Street, of Cowdenbeath (across the river from Edinburgh), bent on an errand pertaining to the preparations for my departure, when I noticed across the way something familiar in the appearance of a tall man in khaki. Twice or thrice I gazed at him, with a sense of dim recollection, and then I went walking--or, rather, limping--on my way. There were uniforms everywhere and one, even though it seemed in some way distinctive, could not hold my attention. I started to cross the street but when I was in the car track, in the middle, a sound arrested me. "Reuter! Reuter!" called a voice which was strangely familiar.