oading and firing until I was
able to get a reserve crew up to relieve him. He was a Scot, one of
the kind that doesn't know what it means to quit. Here's to you,
"Wullie" Shepherd, wherever you are!

The attack was carried off with absolute precision. At one-thirty the
barrage lifted and over the boys went, sweeping everything before
them, back to the original position and then a little farther for good
measure. By daylight they had the new line so well consolidated that
Fritz was never able to make a dent in it and the Canadian prestige
was once more established.

At the left end of our line, where the Minenwerfer had done so much
damage, was a mine shaft; one of many in that vicinity which our
engineers were driving under Hill 60 (they afterward blew it up), and
it seemed as though the boche knew of it and was endeavoring to cave
it in with the "Minnies." In fact, they did succeed in partly
destroying it, but the sheltering roof at the month of the shaft
remained in fair condition, and as it was the only protective covering
in that neighborhood, Bouchard and I were sitting inside, with our
feet hanging down the shaft, holding down that end of the line. We had
relieved the other crew, or rather I had sent them back about two
hundred yards along the trench as a precautionary measure and then,
feeling that some one _must_ remain to keep lookout, decided to take
care of the job myself. The boy, of course, insisted upon staying with
me. The big fellows were coming over with regularity (I nearly said
monotonous, but those things never get monotonous), and were bursting
too close for comfort. Bou had just made a proposition that we sneak
over after dark and try to locate the devil-machine and blow it up,
when we heard something moving below us in the mine-shaft, and a
moment later a mud-encrusted face came up into the light. With an
unusually fluent flow of "language," which sounded strangely familiar
to me, two men came up the ladder, and as the first one emerged into
the daylight he took a look at me and said: "Hello, Mac; it's a long
way to Ft. George, isn't it?" When he had removed some of the dirt
from his face I recognized a miner, named McLeod, who had once helped
rescue me from the Giscome Rapids and afterward worked for me up in
British Columbia. He and his partner had been caught in the shaft and
had been a day digging themselves out. After a rest of a few minutes
they went their way, down the trench, and I neve