"Well, well," he cried delightedly, as he shook hands with us two at a time, "welcome to our city! Where the devil did you chaps spring from?" We assured him that his question was quite _à propos_, as we had just passed through the infernal regions. He laughed as he replied: "Interesting bit of road, that stretch between Ypres and here—been in the front line trenches ourselves for a week out there—caught blazes, too!" His uniform still showed the effects of the trench mud. He was a tall, thin chap, prematurely grey. Like many others of the Princess Pats, he was a veteran of the South African War, a crack-shot, and all-round dare-devil. He spoke in short, quick snatches, starting his sentences with unexpected jerks, and could keep a regiment in shrieks of laughter. "How is the trench life out here?" the colonel enquired, with a jerk of the head towards the battle line. "Plain hell—with a capital H. Excuse the repetition of the word—nothing else describes it—a quagmire two feet deep, full of mud and filth." "Couldn’t you dig it deeper?" Reggy enquired with some concern. "No chance—everywhere you dig—turn up rotting carcases—farther down you go the more water you have to stand in." "The snipers are bad too, are they not?" I asked him. He laughed again. "_Were_ bad, you mean," he cried; "not many left around our trench. Poor Fritzie found us a nasty lot—played dirty tricks on him—organised a ’snipe-the-sniper’ squad—put ’em out of business." "How did you manage it?" I asked curiously. "Stalked ’em—like red Indians—dug a tunnel out to a hill too—came up through the centre of it—hollowed it out inside—and put ’em to sleep one by one. Fritzie doesn’t love us any more, but, by Gad, he respects us!" After we had listened to a few more details of this wild and remarkable life, the colonel enquired: "Where are your headquarters? We want to see your O.C. and the rest of the chaps." "I’ll climb in and show you the way. It’s in another village a few miles from here." Under his guidance we soon found ourselves in the town, and we stopped at the entrance of a small house which still claimed a patch of garden in front. The room we entered contained a barrack table strewn with field maps and papers, and on the tile floor were the sleeping bags of the four officers who made this their temporary home. Major Gault, a tall, handsome officer, with the bearing of the true soldier, rose to welcome us. "It seems good to see some one from home again," he exclaimed, as we shook hands. "I thought we were the only Canucks in Belgium." "You were the first Canadians in Belgium, but we beat you to France by some weeks," the colonel replied, "and we have come up here to tell you where we live, and to let you know that there is a Canadian hospital waiting with open arms to receive you when you call." "That’s splendid," cried the major; "when the boys get hurt be sure you’ll hear from us."