the scar to show for it.

"But how did you come to get into a Canadian unit?" asked another.

"Well, you see, after I was wounded in the leg and got my honorable
discharge, as soon as I was well, I wanted to do my bit again, and
knowing that you laddies get bigger pay than in the British army, I
thought I would kill two birds wi' the one stone,--get more money and
get into the game again. So I ups and goes to the Colonel and says I,
'Colonel, I'd like to get into the game again.' 'Well,' says he, 'I hae
na room for any more men in my command, but I do want a gude cook,' an'
it just happened that I was a cook by trade, and a gude one too, and
told him so, and says he, 'Well, you're just the man I want,' and he
signed me up there and then, and here I am."

He was a good cook and he was proud of it too; we had no reason to
complain of the way our meals were prepared. There was only one thing
about Scotty that caused a shade of dissatisfaction,--he was so
scrupulously careful to see that no man got more than his just share of
the grub that many a fellow grumbled about not getting enough to eat
and, in many cases, that they did not get what was coming to them. But
Scotty would shut them with the authority of an old soldier and,
besides, in his cookhouse he was monarch of all he surveyed. In a
half-humorous, half-scolding voice he would say, "Mon, what do you want
to be a hog for? Do you want to let someone else gang hungry? Tak'
what's given ye and thank God you're alive to eat it, because it won't
be long maybe before you'll be where ye won't need any grub--although
undoubtedly you'll need water."

This was an allusion to our probable future abode. So we had to be
content with what he chose to serve us. But there were speculations by
some as to whether or not Scotty really served us all the grub given him
by the quartermaster's department, and someone was so unjust, I thought,
as to venture the suggestion that he believed "the damned Scotch runt is
selling the grub to men in other units." "How does it happen," said he,
in support of his suspicion, "that he always has a little change when
the rest of us are broke?"

"Oh, nonsense," said I, "a good soldier wouldn't do such a thing, and we
all know he is a good soldier; there is no getting away from that."

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST NIGHT

I arrived in France early in February, 1915, and for three weeks we were
put into the hands of an Imperial battery, the Warwic