"You step a mite lame on your right leg," said the driver.
"That's so," replied Peter, smiling.
"Been soldierin', hey? See any fight-in'?"
"Yes, I've been in Flanders."
"That so? I've got a boy in the war. Smart boy, too. They give him a job right in England. He wears spurs to his boots, he does; and it ain't everyone kin wear them spurs, he writes me. This here war ain't all in Flanders. We had some shootin' round here about a year back out Pike's Settlement way. A young feller in soldier uniform was drivin' along, and some one shot at him from the woods. That's what he said, but my boy—that was afore he went to the war—says like enough he shot himself so's to git out of goin'. He's a smart lad—that's why they give him a job in England. Army Service Corps, he is—so I reckon maybe he's right about that feller shootin' himself."
"What's his name?" asked Peter quietly.
"Starkley. Peter Starkley from Beaver Dam."
"I'm asking the name of that smart son of yours."
"Gus Todder's his name—Gus Todder, junior. Maybe you know him," was the reply.
"No, but I've got his number," said Peter. "You tell him so in the next letter you write him. Tell him that Sergt. Peter Starkley of the 26th Canadian Infantry Battalion will be glad to see him when he comes home; tell him not to cut himself on those spurs of his in the meantime; and you'd better advise him to warn his father not to shoot his mouth off in future to military men about things he is ignorant of. Here's where I get off. Thanks for the lift."