out, until the enemy’s batteries (probably in response to an urgent appeal from their own front line) ceased firing.  Thereupon “A” Company, who at Bobby Little’s behest had taken immediate cover in the water-logged support-trench, returned stolidly to their dug-outs in Willow Grove.  Death, when he makes the mistake of raiding your premises every day, loses most of his terrors and becomes a bit of a bore.

This morning the Company presents its normal appearance:  its numbers have been reduced by eight—­c’est tout!  It may be some one else’s turn to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here for.  Anyhow, we are keeping the Boches out of “Wipers,” and a bit over.  So we stretch our legs in the wood, and keep the flooded trench for the next emergency.

Let us approach a group of four which is squatting sociably round a small and inadequate fire of twigs, upon which four mess-tins are simmering.  The quartette consists of Privates Cosh and Tosh, together with Privates Buncle and Nigg, preparing their midday meal.

“Tak’ off your damp chup, Jimmy,” suggested Tosh to Buncle, who was officiating as stoker.  “Ye mind what the Captain said aboot smoke?”

“It wasna the Captain:  it was the Officer,” rejoined Buncle cantankerously.

(It may here be explained, at the risk of another digression, that no length of association or degree of intimacy will render the average British soldier familiar with the names of his officers.  The Colonel is “The C.O.”; the Second in Command is “The Major”; your Company Commander is “The Captain,” and your Platoon Commander “The Officer.”  As for all others of commissioned rank in the regiment, some twenty-four in all, they are as nought.  With the exception of the Quartermaster, in whose shoes each member of the rank and file hopes one day to stand, they simply do not exist.)

“Onyway,” pursued the careful Tosh, “he said that if any smoke was shown, all fires was tae be pitten oot.  So mind and see no’ to get a cauld dinner for us all, Jimmy!”

“Cauld or het,” retorted the gentleman addressed, “it’s little dinner I’ll be gettin’ this day!  And ye ken fine why!” he added darkly.

Private Tosh removed a cigarette from his lower lip and sighed patiently.

“For the last time,” he announced, with the air of a righteous man suffering long, “I did not lay ma hand on your dirrty wee bit ham!”

“Maybe,” countered the bereaved Buncle swiftly, “you did not lay your hand upon it; but you had it tae your breakfast for all that, Davie!”

“I never pit ma hand on it!” repeated Tosh doggedly.

“No?  Then I doot you gave it a bit kick with your foot,” replied the inflexible Buncle.

“Or got some other body tae luft it for him!” suggested Private Nigg, looking hard at Tosh’s habitual accomplice, Cosh.

“I had it pitten in an auld envelope from hame, addressed with my name,” continued the mourner.  “It couldna hae got oot o’ that by accident!”