us that there was no hut at one time near his front.

"Bad luck here, this time in. No Y.M.C.A. hut near. I was coming
out last night for a turn in billets when I fell into a shell
hole. It was pretty near full of water, so I got soaked to the
neck, and I hit against a couple of dead Boches in it, too. Not
nice. Reached the billet dripping wet. Have got a couple of sugar
boxes, one at my head and one at my feet. Have coke brazier
underneath. If I lie here about three hours and keep turning, I
guess I'll be dry by then."

That's when no padre was handy to lead the way to a hut.

Can folk wonder why we love the padres, why we reverence the Y.M.C.A.? Can
folk wonder why the men who used to look on such men as sissy-boys have
changed their opinions? Can folk wonder that the religion which is
Christian is making an impression on the soldier? Can folk deny the fact
that this war will make better men?

Once again I mention Major the Reverend John Pringle. Best of pals, best of
sports, best of sky-pilots! Many a time as we have been marching along we
have met him. He would pick out a face from among the crowd, maybe a
British Columbia man. "Hello! salmon-belly!" would good Major John peal
out. Again, he would see a Nova Scotian: "Hello! fish-eater--hello,
blue-nose!"

Then through us all would go a rush of good feeling and good heart.
Through all of us would go a stream of courage and happiness and a desire
to stand right with the man as he was.