night and day. I have preached the Gospel within forty yards of the
Germans. I have tried to sleep at night in a cellar, and it was so cold
that my moustache froze to my blanket and my boots froze to the floor. The
meal which comforted me most was a little sour French bread and some Swiss
milk and hot water, and a pinch of sugar when I could get it.

There are Y.M.C.A. marquees close to the roads down which come the walking
wounded from the trenches. In three of these marquees last summer in three
days over ten thousand cases were provided with hot drinks and
refreshment—free. And that I call Christian work. You and I have been too
much concerned about the preaching and too little about the doing of
things.

A friend of mine was in one of those marquees at the time, and he told me
a beautiful story. Some of the men sat and stood there two and three hours
waiting their turn, and the workers were nearly run off their feet. They
were at it for three nights and three days. There was one fellow, a
handsome chap, sitting huddled up and looking so haggard and cold, that my
friend said to him,

“I am sorry you have had to wait so long, old chap. We’re doing our best.
We’ll get to you as soon as we can.”

“Never mind me,” said the man; “carry on!”

As the sun came out he unbuttoned his coat, and when the coat was thrown
back my friend saw that he was wearing a colonel’s uniform.

“I am sorry, sir,” said my friend. “I did not know. I oughtn’t to have
spoken to you in that familiar way.”