Making the sand-bag a foundation for head cover, the men began cautiously to cut and scoop the soft ground and pile it up in front of them.  The grass was long and rank, and in the shifting light the work went on unobserved for over an hour.  The men, cramped and uncomfortable, with every muscle aching from head to foot, worked doggedly, knowing each five minutes’ work, each handful of earth scooped out and thrown up, meant an extra point off the odds on a bullet reaching them when the Germans discovered their operations and opened fire on the working party.

They still worked only in the dark intervals between the flares, and, of course, in as deep a silence as they possibly could.  Brock and the Captain crawled at intervals up and down the line with a word of praise or a reproach dropped here and there as it was needed.  At the end of one trip, Brock crept into the listening-post and conversed in whispers with Riley, his fellow-conspirator.

“They’re working like beavers,” he said, “and, if the Boche doesn’t twig the game for another half-hour, we’ll have enough cover scooped out to go on without losing too many men from their fire.”

Riley chuckled.  “It’s working fine,” he said.  “I’m only hoping that some ruffian doesn’t spoil the game by crawling out and finding our General is no more than a false alarm.”

“That would queer the pitch,” agreed Brock, “but I don’t fancy any one will try it.  They all know the working party is liable to be discovered at any minute, and any one out in the open when that comes off, is going to be in a tight corner.”

“There’s a good many here,” said Riley, “that would chance a few tight corners if they knew five thousand francs was at the other side of it; but I took the precaution to hint gently to Clancy that our machine gun was going to keep on spraying lead round the General all night, to discourage any private enterprise.”

“Anyhow,” said Brock, “I suppose the whole regiment’s in it, and flatter themselves this trifle of digging is for the special benefit of their pockets.  But what are those fellows of ours supposed to be digging at in the corner there!”

“That,” whispered the Little Lad, grinning, “is merely an improving of the amenities of the listening-post and the beginning of a dugout shelter from bombs; at least, that’s Clancy’s suggestion, though I have a suspicion there will be no hurry to roof-in the dug-out and that its back-door will travel an unusual length out.”

“Well, so long,” said Brock; “I must sneak along again and have a look at the digging.”

It was when he was half-way back to the main trench that it became apparent the German suspicions were aroused, and that something—­a movement after a light flared, perhaps, or the line of a parapet beginning to show above the grass—­had drawn their attention to the work.

Light after light commenced to toss in an unbroken stream from their parapet in the direction of the working party, and a score of bullets, obviously aimed at them, hissed close overhead.