“Aw, brother,” said he. “We’ve got to take our chances along with the rest.” At the foot of the stairs was a table on which were the few things the Salvation Army man had to sell, up here under the guns. There were some figs and a handful of black licorice drops and a few nuts. Boys kept coming in and demanding cookies. Cookies there were none, but there was hope ahead. If the Brigadier managed to get in to-night with the fliv, there might be cookies. No Money, But Good Cheer. “Just our luck,” said some morose doughboy, “if a shell hit the fliv. It’s a hell of a road——” “No shell has hit it yet, brother,” said the Salvation Army man, cheerily. Fifteen dollars would have bought everything he had in stock. One could have carried away the whole stock in the pockets of an army overcoat. The Salvation Army has no money, you know. It is hard to buy supplies for canteens over here, unless a pocket filled with money is doing the buying. The Salvation Army must pick up its stuff where it can get it. Yesterday there had been sardines and shaving soap and tin watches. To-day there were only figs and licorice drops and nuts. “But if the Brigadier gets in,” said the Salvation Army man, “there will be something sweet to eat. And we’ll have a little meeting of song and praise, brother—just to thank God for the chance he has given us to help.” Here there is no one else to serve the boys. Other organizations have more money and more men, but for some reason they have not seen fit to come to this which was once a town. Shells fall into it from six directions all day and all night long. Now and then it is gassed. A few kilometres away is the German line. One reaches town over a road which is nightly torn to pieces by high explosives. No one comes here voluntarily, and no one stays willingly—except the Salvation Army man. He’s here for keeps. Men come down into his little dugout to play checkers and dominoes and buy sweet things to eat. He is here to help them spiritually as well as physically and they know it, and yet they do not hear him. He talks to them just as they talk to each other, except that he does not swear and he does not tell stories that have too much of a tang. He never obtrudes his religion on them. Just once in a while—on the nights the Brigadier gets in—there is a little song and praise meeting. They thank God for the chance they have to help. That night the Brigadier got in with his cookies and chocolates and his message that salvation is free. Perhaps a dozen men sat around uncomfortably in the little dugout and listened to him. The man of the mandolin had refused at the last moment. He said he would be dam’ if he could play a hymn tune on that thing. But the old hymn quavered cheerily out of the little dugout into the shell-torn night. The husky voices of the Brigadier and the Ensign and Holy Joe carried it on, while the little audience sat mute. While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high.