"Take him out," he pleaded; "for Gord sake, take him out. He's hurtin'
our gun."
[Illustration: "ONE FOURTH OF THE ENTIRE PELHAM FIELD ARTILLERY PASSED
OVER MY BODY"]
This remark gave me the strength to rise, but not gracefully. My
intention was to address a few handpicked words to this P.O. of mine,
but fortunately for my future peace of mind I was beyond utterance.
Weakly I tottered in the direction of the gun, hoping to support
myself upon it.
"Hey, come away from that gun!" howled the P.O. "Don't let him touch
it, fellers," he pleaded. "Don't let him even go near it. He'll spoil
it. He'll completely destroy it."
"Say, Buddy," said the Chief to me, and how I hated the ignominy of
the word, "I guess I'll take you out of the game for to-day. I'm
responsible for Government property, and you are altogether too big a
risk."
"What shall I do?" I asked, huskily. "Where shall I go?"
"Do?" he repeated, in a thoughtful voice. "Go? Well, here's where you
can go," and he told me, "and this is what you can do when you get
there," and as I departed rather hastily he told me this also. The
entire parade ground heard him. How shall I ever be able to hold up my
head again in Camp? I departed the spot, but only under one boiler;
however, I made fair speed.
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