"They fought well at the battle of the Marne," Jack remarked. "It makes me smile still as I picture a fat little French officer with drawn sword—God only knows what he intended doing with it—who stood behind a haystack waving to his men to come on. He was absolutely fearless. Again and again he charged up that steep hill with the men, and when they couldn’t make it, back he would come to hide behind his hay-stack and wait until he could induce them to try it again. About the fifth attack they succeeded and went on over the hill." I questioned him about the battle of Ypres. (This, of course, was the first battle of Ypres—not that in which the Canadians distinguished themselves.) "It was fast work at ’Wipers,’" he said, "with shells falling into the town like a thousand roaring devils. They dropped one into the signaller’s billet. It tore a hole in the side of the building large enough to march an elephant through, and killed every mother’s son of them. A ’Jack Johnson’ came through the roof of our hospital and dropped into the ward—exit ward! There wasn’t a bed left standing. Luckily we had removed most of the patients into the cellar—but those who were left are still there, buried in the ruins." "The usual German respect for the Red Cross!" I commented bitterly. "The flag makes a good mark for their artillery," he returned, with a smile; "they always look for us." "You’ve had many narrow squeaks, I presume?" He laughed merrily. "So narrow that if I had had a big stomach it might have been whittled down to sylph-like proportions. I was standing one day close to a dug-out, talking to two brother officers. The ’Whizz-Bangs’ and ’Coal Boxes’ were sizzling over from time to time, but not especially close. An old friend of mine" (Jack always had an "old friend" everywhere!) "stuck his head out of the dug-out and shouted up to me: "’Drop in and have a drink, Jack—the water’s fine!’ "I told him I was never thirsty in the mornings. He looked surprised, but called back again: "’If you’ll do me the honour to descend, I’ll make you a fine long John Collins!’ "’Well, well,’ I said, ’as you’re so kind and such a persistent beggar, I’ll humour you.’ The other two officers said they wouldn’t go in, and so I climbed down into his dug-out and sat down. "Just as I did so a big shell came—bang!—right where I had been standing. We sprang to our feet and looked out—the poor chaps I had just left had been literally blown to pieces!" He lay pensively silent for a moment or two, and there was a suspicious glint of moisture in his eyes as he turned his face toward the wall. Then he turned on his side once more, and smiling brightly up at me, murmured: "It’s been a great lesson to me!" "In what way?" I queried. "Never to refuse a drink!" It will take more than a world’s war to depress Jack. His cork-like spirit will always make him pop up serene to the surface of the whirlpool of life.