had a trim fighting figure and wore the uniform we love so well. He wore puttees and limped somewhat but from the medals he wore on his breast I judged that he had met the enemy and that they were his—and ours.
“His was a fine, heroic face and the very way his over-seas cap set on the side of his head, his smiling eyes, his hearty laugh and the firm, smooth grasp of his hand was enough to show me that he was one of the brave boys from over there who had caught ‘the torch from failing hands and held it high in Flanders fields.’
“‘Don’t you remember me, Mr. Collins?’ he cried. “I’m Jack Heaton, and you used to let me make things in your laboratory over in Newark when I was a kid!’
“‘Of course I remember you but, my, how you have grown. I never would have known you. You were rather a frail chap then and now you’re such a powerfully built young fellow.’ And then we talked about you and all your experiences since I last saw you. I told you that you ought to write a book and you said that there wasn’t much to write, and that if it was done I’d have to do it for you.
“Then we agreed we’d collaborate, you to