"All right, but you'll have to pass the doctor first. I'm pretty sure I can
get by, but I'm not so certain about you."

Ken Mitchell looked up at that and, smiling at me, said, "I can imagine
almost anything in this world, but I can't imagine Peat a soldier."

"Well, we'll see about that, Ken," I replied, and with that the supper came
to an end.

That evening Bill and I went over to the One-Hundred-and-First Barracks,
but there was nothing doing, as word had just come from Ottawa to stop
recruiting. It was on the twenty-second of August, 1914, before the office
was opened again, and on that day we took another shot at our luck.

The doctor gave me the "once over" while Bill stood outside.

"One inch too small around the chest," was the verdict.

"Oh, Doc, have a heart!"

"No," he said, "we have too many men now to be taking a little midget like
you." That was disappointment number two. I walked out and reported to
Bill, and I need not say that that loyal friend did not try to pass without
me.

That night--August twenty-second--I slept very little. I had made up my
mind that I was going to the war, and go I would, chest or no chest. Before
morning I had evolved many plans and adopted one. I counted on my
appearance to put me through. I am short and slight. I'm dark and
curly-haired. I can pass for a Frenchman, an American, a Belgian; or at a