“Hullo!”

“Hullo!”

“This is Pike.”

“This is Possum.  H-hullo, Pike!”

“Hullo, Possum!”

“I say, look here, the General w-wants to know” (here he paused to throw a dark hidden meaning into the word) “what time—­it—­is.”

“What time it is?”

“Yes, what time it is! It.  Yes, what time it is”—­repeated fortissimo ad lib.

“Eleven thirty-five.”

“Eleven thirty-five?  Why, it’s on now.  I don’t hear anything on the Front?”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s all quiet.”

“But you said s-something was on?”

“No, I didn’t.  You asked me what time it was and I told you.”

Swallowing hard several times, Possum girded up his loins, so to speak, gripped the telephone firmly in the right hand this time, and jumped off again.  His “Hullo” sent a thrill through even the Bosch listening apparatus in the next sector.

“Hullo!  L-look here, Pike, we—­want—­to—­know—­what time it is.”

“Eleven thir—­”

“No, no, it—­it”

“What?”

“It!  You know what I mean.  Damit, what can I call it?  Oh—­er, sports; what time is your high jump?” he added, nodding and winking knowingly.  “Well, what time’s the circus?  When do you start for Berlin?”

“I say, Possum, are you all right, old chap?” said a voice full of concern.

A crop of full-bodied beads appeared on the Brigade Major’s brow.  His right hand was paralysed by the unceasing grip of the receiver.  There was a strained look in his eyes as of a man watching for the ration-party.

“S-something,” he said, calmly and surely mastering his fate—­“s-something is happening to-night.”

“You’re a cheery sort of bloke, aren’t you?”

“Good God, are you cracked or what?  There’s a—­”

“Careful, careful!” called the General from his comfortable chair in the other room.

“O-oh!” sang the mosquito voice, “now I know what you mean.  You want to know what time our—­er—­ha! ha! you know—­the—­er—­don’t you?”

“The—­ha! ha! yes”—­they leered frightfully at each other; it was a horrible spectacle.  No one would think that Possum had so much latent evil in him.

“We sent you the time mid-day.”

“Well, we haven’t had it.  C-can you give me any indication, w-without actually s-saying it, you know?”

“Well now,” said the mosquito, “You know how many years’ service I’ve got?  Multiply by two and add the map square of this headquarters.”

“Well, look here,” it sang again, “you remember the number of the billet where I had dinner with you three weeks ago?  Well, halve that and add two.”

“Half nine and add two” (aside:  “These midnight mathematics will be the death of me—­ah! that’s between six and seven?"). Aloud:  “But that’s daylight.”