there, much after the fashion, I think, of a man shading his eyes from
the sun, or a nautical chap gazing intently seaward.

"You idiot!" he bellowed, as he grabbed my hand and fiercely flung it
down. "Don't you know how to salute? Here, do this"--and he saluted. I
followed as well as I was able, but the utter disgust that was plastered
all over his visage as he turned on his heel would not have left much
hope for soldierly qualifications in one any less hopeful and
enthusiastic than I was.

My sister, in spite of her tears, could not keep back the smile as I
again kissed her good-by.

It was about noon next day when I reached Valcartier and after a month
of solid work, the like of which I had never before experienced, I was
as hard as a nail, and as tough, as indeed was every man in that honor
division of Canada's expeditionary forces.

We received orders to leave for England on the 14th day of September,
1914. I was detailed on a gun limber of my subsection of the First
Battery, the artillery being the arm of the service to which I was
assigned. Starting about 4:30 in the afternoon, in torrents of rain, we
headed for the city of Quebec. Along the way the people had thoughtfully
built large bonfires on either side of the road, serving the double
purpose of lighting our way during the night and enabling us to jump off
and warm ourselves, as we were thoroughly chilled.

The road was in a horribly bad condition and the rain did not improve it
any, and while the limber was lurching from side to side, like a ship
staggering in a storm, it was the better part of wisdom for me to keep