Upon these occasions there is usually a good deal of time to fill in between the arrival of the new brooms and the departure of the old.  This period of waiting may be likened to that somewhat anxious interval with which frequenters of race-courses are familiar, between the finish of the race and the announcement of the “All Right!” The outgoing Headquarters are waiting for the magic words—­“Relief Complete!” Until that message comes over the buzzer, the period of tension endures.  The main point of difference is that the gentleman who has staked his fortune on the legs of a horse has only to wait a few minutes for the confirmation of his hopes; while a Brigadier, whose bedtime (or even breakfast-time) is at the mercy of an errant platoon, may have to sit up all night.

“Sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” said A Brigade to X Brigade.

X Brigade complied, and having been furnished with refreshment, led off with the inevitable question—­

“Does one—­er—­get shelled much here?”

There was a reassuring coo from A Brigade.

“Oh, no.  This is a very healthy spot.  One has to be careful, of course.  No movement, or fires, or anything of that kind.  A sentry or two, to warn people against approaching over the open by day, and you’ll be as cooshie as anything!” ("Cooshie” is the latest word here.  That and “crump.”)

“I ought to warn you of one thing,” said the Brigadier.  “Owing to the surrounding woods, sound is most deceptive here.  You will hear shell-bursts which appear quite close, when in reality they are quite a distance away.  That, for instance!”—­as a shell exploded apparently just outside the window.  “That little fellow is a couple of hundred yards away, in the corner of the wood.  The Boche has been groping about there for a battery for the last two days.”

“Is the battery there?” inquired a voice.

“No; it is farther east.  But there is a Gunner’s Mess about two hundred yards from here, in that house which you passed on the way up.”

“Oh!” observed X Brigade.

Gunners are peculiar people.  When professionally engaged, no men could be more retiring.  They screen their operations from the public gaze with the utmost severity, shrouding batteries in screens of foliage and other rustic disguises.  If a layman strays anywhere near one of these arboreal retreats, a gunner thrusts out a visage enflamed with righteous wrath, and curses him for giving the position away.  But in his hours of relaxation the gunner is a different being.  He billets himself in a house with plenty of windows:  he illuminates all these by night, and hangs washing therefrom by day.  When inclined for exercise, he goes for a promenade across an open space labelled—­“Not to be used by troops by daylight.”  Therefore, despite his technical excellence and superb courage, he is an uncomfortable neighbour for establishments like Hush Hall.