Twice I've dropped like dead in the shop--strained heart, says the doctor.

No time to eat!--no time to sleep!--come out for an hour, wolf some brandy down and go back again, and then they tell you you're a drunken brute! "Shells and guns!" says the Government--"more shells!--more guns!--deliver the goods!" And we've delivered 'em.

My two brothers are dead in France.

I shall be "combed" out directly, and a "sniper" will get me, perhaps, three days after I get to the trenches, as he did my young brother.

What then?
Oh, I know, there's some of us--the young lads mostly--who've got out of hand, and 'll give the Government trouble perhaps before they've done.