"Don't be ridiculous," I cried out, hot with rage and humiliation;
"you know perfectly well I'm not playing horse. I realize as well as
you do that this is a serious--"

At this juncture of my brave retort a gun barrel stove in the back of
my head, some one kicked me on the shin and in some indescribable
manner the butt of a rifle became entangled between my feet, and down
I went in a cloud of dust and oaths. One-fourth of the entire Pelham
field artillery passed over my body, together with its crew, while
through the roar and confusion raised by this horrible cataclysm I
could hear innumerable C.P.O.'s howling and blackguarding me in
frenzied tones, and I dimly distinguished their forms dancing in rage
amid descending billows of dust. The parade ground swirled dizzily
around me, but I had no desire to arise and begin life anew. It would
not be worth while. I felt that I had at the most only a short time to
live, and that that was too long. The world offered nothing but the
most horrifying possibilities to me. "What is the Biltmore to a man in
uniform, anyway?" I remember thinking to myself as I lay there with my
nose pressed flat to an ant hill, "all the best parts of it are arid
districts, waste places, limitless Saharas to him. Death, where is thy
sting?" I continued, as an outraged ant assaulted my nose. The world
came throbbing back. I felt myself being dragged violently away from
my resting place. I was choking. Bidding farewell to the ants, I
prepared myself to swoon when gradually, as if from a great distance,
I heard the voice of my P.O. He was almost crying.

"Take him out," he pleaded; "for Gord sake, take him out. He's hurtin'
our gun."

[Illustration: "ONE FOURTH OF THE ENTIRE PELHAM FIELD ARTILLERY PASSED