distant.

Everybody sought shelter in the cellars, or any other hole they could
crawl into, until night. I searched out my mule, and was thankful to
find it where I had left it, tied to a tree, gave it a feed of oats,
waited until it munched, unperturbed by the crashing explosions breaking
in the immediate neighborhood, and utterly oblivious of the fact that I
was counting the seconds until it had finished.

Under cover of the night, I returned to the wagon lines, and in much
better time than coming down, for which I had to thank the feed of oats.
The bath gave me a new hold on life; I felt ten years younger and
several pounds lighter.

I learned next day that the station master at Poperinghe had been
arrested, tried as a spy and shot. It transpired that he had a wire
running from the station depot straight to the German lines, together
with some other signaling apparatus, and there was no doubt in the minds
of the trial board that it was due to this man's espionage that the
bathers lost their lives while in the tubs.

The spy system had so thoroughly impregnated every hole and corner of
the district around Ypres that it became the sorest thorn in the sides
of the Command, but we finally managed to root it out hip and thigh, and
that sector is now as immune from their activities as any other sector
in the front lines.

Going up to take my position with the gun next day I met a bomber of the
21st Canadian Infantry, carrying a bag of his wares--hand grenades. We
walked together for some distance, and just as I was on the point of