wrecked feature into a pure Greek line at first sight of which Giddy stood staring weakly into the mirror; reeling a little with surprise and horror and unbelief and general misery. “Can this be I?” he thought, feeling like the old man of the bramble bush in the Mother Goose rhyme. A well-made and becoming nose, but not so fine looking as the original feature had been, as worn by Giddy.

“Look here!” he protested to the surgeon, months too late. “Look here, this isn’t my nose.”

“Be glad,” replied that practical Prussian person, “that you have any.”

With his knowledge of French and English and German Giddy acted as interpreter during the months of his invalidism and later internment, and