"Wot more?" he demanded quizzically. "Only this," I continued, "that everything had been so well preserved by the ice that even the wisp of hay was still in his mouth." "Dat’ll do—dat’ll do," he cried, as he rose abruptly to his feet. "Don’ tell me no more. I sits here like a big gawk listenin’ to dat story wit’ me mout’ open an’ takin’ it all in like a dam’ fool. An’ I stood fer it all, too," he continued, with remorseful irritability, "till ye comed to dat ’wisp o’ hay’ business—dat wos de las’ straw." "Hay, Tim," I corrected. "Hay er straw, it’s all de same to dis gent. Gees! you is de worse liar wot I ever heard." Tim’s humiliation at the thought that he had been taken in was so comical that I had to laugh. He turned hastily for the door, and as he passed out cried: "Good night, sir. Don’ have no more nightmares like dat." The first faint light of day was stealing into the room as I felt myself tugged gently by the toe. I opened my eyes and dimly saw Tim’s dishevelled head at the foot of my bed. "What is it, Tim?" I asked, in some surprise. "Look’ee here," he said huskily, "tell me some more about this yere biffalo." And with a soft chuckle he tiptoed out of the room. When the time came to send the German prisoners to England little Sergeant Mack was detailed to guard them. After a comfortable stay for two weeks in hospital, and with a keen recollection of kindly treatment throughout, it was hardly likely they would attempt violence or brave the dangers of escape. But Mack, seated in the ambulance with a dozen healthy-looking Germans, who could easily have eaten him alive had they been so disposed, clutched in his coat pocket a little .22 revolver which Reggy had lent him. He seemed to appreciate the possibility of a catastrophe and, judging by the uneasy expression on his good-natured face, he had little relish for his precarious duty. Even the ill-famed corporal looked his disappointment at leaving us, and the others seemed to feel that they would rather stay with captors whom they knew than fly to captors "whom they knew not of." The Pole had, remarkable to relate, learned to speak English with a fair degree of success during his two weeks’ stay, and quite openly expressed his regret at leaving. The others were merely silent and glum. Perhaps they felt that now that their wounds were healed, like well-fed cattle they were to be taken out and killed. The ambulance driver and Sergeant Honk were seated in front, but little Mack was alone inside, and they had twenty miles to go. Nothing of moment happened until the ambulance, threading its way between the railroad tracks at Boulogne, pulled up upon the quay at the _Gare Maritime_. Here unexpected trouble arose. No German prisoners could be taken upon the hospital ship; the Embarkation Officer refused to let them aboard. He said they must be taken back to the Canadian hospital until a proper boat was ready for them.