"'I have left two men on the road—ptomaine poisoning. Pick them up, will you?' he asks.
"'Yes. Good-night!'
"On we go again. The rain pours, the wind is rising to a gale. The road is very narrow. The wheels of the waggon plunge into a deep rut and send a spray of mud up into our faces. Soon we pull up before a little building at the side of the road not far from our firing line. It is the dressing station where the wounded are brought until the waggons can come to convey them to the hospitals out of the fire zone.
"Our captain and the sergeant enter the building, and a corporal in charge of the place whispers, 'Sir, we have one dead here.'
"'One dead! We did not know that. We have no chaplain.'
"The sergeant whispers to the captain that I am a Wesleyan minister. The captain calls me.
"'Are you a minister?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Can you bury this man?'
"'Yes, sir.'