asked me;
he at least is a gentleman."

CHAPTER III.

JOHN CORNWALL TRAVELS A BIT AND RETURNS HOME.

I believe it is Victor Hugo who declares sixty the age of adventure. To
the regret of many an adventurous soul past forty-five, this view was
not shared by those organizing Uncle Sam's oversea fighting force, and
these men, regardless of physical fitness, found their opportunities
limited to camp-follower service in the capacity of Red Cross, K. C. or
Y. M. C. A. worker.

So John Cornwall, Y. M. C. A. worker, in due course arrived at Bologna
and was assigned for service with the Seventh Italian army, located in
the head of the Val Camonica and holding the front line around Tonale
Pass and Mt. Adamello, a glacier 11,700 feet high.

This was hardly a satisfactory winter assignment, as fuel was scarce and
the icy winds and Austrian guns kept him burrowed in the chiseled
caverns of the dolomite peaks like a prairie dog in winter quarters
until the first of November, when Tonale Pass, which had been in
possession of the Austrians for several years, was crossed and the
advance made into the Trentino, followed by the surrender of the
Austrian armies and the Italian-Austrian armistice of November 3-4th.

Then, after following the advancing army several days towards Innsbruck,
he returned to Pontagna and a winter in the Alpine snow fields, where,
above nine thousand feet, you find the arctic ptarmigan and perpetual
snow, where the telephone lines occasionally fail to function because
under snows, and the magnificent mountain roads approaching the passes
are closed for several months by deep snows, despite a struggle to keep
open a narrow trail with snow plows on which, if you meet another
vehicle, all hands shovel snow for an hour, making room to pass.

There nothing was to be seen except snow and scenery and soldiers and
guns and snow dogs.

The Mt. Adamello snow or sled dogs are a cross between the Canadian and
Russian husky, big, white, woolly, impressive war veterans, snarling and
snapping at one another and their keepers, barking little, knowing that
silence is salvation. White and hard to see, they are sent between lines
into territory where nothing living and seen can live.

These dogs are allowed half the rations of a soldier; are marked with
indelible ink on the pink skin inside the ear; and a pair, with apparent
ease, draw a sled load of three hundred pounds.

It would be hard to picture John's lone