It was a knock-out blow.

“For ony sake,” muttered the now demoralised Tosh, “drop the subject, and I’ll gie ye a bit ham o’ ma ain!  There’s just time tae cook it—­”

“What kin’ o’ a fire is this?”

A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substantial presence inserted itself between the debaters and the wintry sunshine.  Corporal Mucklewame was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, pointing an accusing finger at the fire, which, neglected in the ardour of discussion, was smoking furiously.

“Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?” continued Mucklewame sarcastically.  “Put oot the fire at once, or I’ll need tae bring ye all before the Officer.  It is a cauld dinner ye’ll get, and ye’ll deserve it!”

IV

In the fire-trench—­or perhaps it would be more correct to call it the water-trench—­life may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not often dull.  For one thing, we are never idle.

A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several yards of your parapet.  Straightway your machine-gunners are called up, to cover the gap until darkness falls and the gaping wound can be stanched with fresh sandbags.  A mine has been exploded upon your front, leaving a crater into which predatory Boches will certainly creep at night.  You summon a posse of bombers to occupy the cavity and discourage any such enterprise.  The heavens open, and there is a sudden deluge.  Immediately it is a case of all hands to the trench-pump!  A better plan, if you have the advantage of ground, is to cut a culvert under the parapet and pass the inundation on to a more deserving quarter.  In any case you need never lack healthful exercise.

While upon the subject of mines, we may note that this branch of military industry has expanded of late to most unpleasant dimensions.  The Boche began it, of course—­he always initiates these undesirable pastimes,—­and now we have followed his lead and caught him up.

To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind groper amid the dark places of the earth, in search of a foe whom it is almost certain death to encounter there, seems perhaps the most idiotic of all the idiotic careers open to those who are idiotic enough to engage in modern warfare.  However, many of us are as much at home below ground as above it.  In most peaceful times we were accustomed to spend eight hours a day there, lying up against the “face” in a tunnel perhaps four feet high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed any ordinary man with cramp.  But there are few ordinary men in “K(1)” There is never any difficulty in obtaining volunteers for the Tunnelling Company.

So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, mining, viewed under our present heading—­namely, Winter Sports—­offers the following advantages to its participants:—­

(1) In winter it is much warmer below the earth than upon its surface, and Thomas Atkins is the most confirmed “frowster” in the world.