While I was snoozing comfortably in my car today, Gilmore started the motor and had driven out of the cantonment before I realized what he was doing. I think he wanted to prove to me that a couché has no easy ride in one of our ambulances, for he went over curbstones and rock-piles and into ditches and shell holes, like those which we run into on the Esnes road. The jar was terrific. Sometimes it shook my body all over; and again when we hit a sharp bump, like the curb, my feet, along with the whole rear end of the stretcher, were thrown twelve inches into the air and then fell with a crash onto the floor of the car.
I wonder what the girls back home would think of the love-letter reading contest we had in our room tonight. There were four of us there, Eaton, Payne, Frazer and I, sitting around the fire and having a terrible debate over whether or not the Boston Post had the second largest morning circulation in the country. Eaton swore that it had, because he had worked on it for a month about five years ago. He rashly offered ten to one odds, and all three of us took him up at fifty francs apiece. We intended to prove it by my Almanac which
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