“How do you know?”

“It was rumoured in ‘Comic Cuts.’” ("Comic Cuts” is the stately Summary of War Intelligence issued daily from Olympus.)

“If that is true,” said Wagstaffe, “they probably will attack.  All this fuss and bobbery suggest something of the kind.  They remind me of the commotion which used to precede Arthur Roberts’s entrance in the old days of Gaiety burlesque.  Before your time, I fancy, Bobby?”

“Yes,” said Bobby modestly.  “I first found touch with the Gaiety over ‘Our Miss Gibbs.’  And I was quite a kid even then,” he added, with characteristic honesty.  “But what about Arthur Roberts?”

“Some forty or fifty years ago,” explained Wagstaffe, “when I was in the habit of frequenting places of amusement, Arthur Roberts was leading man at the establishment to which I have referred.  He usually came on about half-past eight, just as the show was beginning to lose its first wind.  His entrance was a most tremendous affair.  First of all the entire chorus blew in from the wings—­about sixty of them in ten seconds—­saying “Hurrah, hurrah, girls!” or something rather subtle of that kind; after which minor characters rushed on from opposite sides and told one another that Arthur Roberts was coming.  Then the band played, and everybody began to tell the audience about it in song.  When everything was in full blast, the great man would appear—­stepping out of a bathing-machine, or falling out of a hansom-cab, or sliding down a chute on a toboggan.  He was assisted to his feet by the chorus, and then proceeded to ginger the show up.  Well, that’s how this present entertainment impresses me.  All this noise and obstreperousness are leading up to one thing—­Kaiser Bill’s entrance.  Preliminary bombardment—­that’s the chorus getting to work!  Minor characters—­the trench-mortars—­spread the glad news!  Band and chorus—­that’s the grand attack working up to boiling-point!  Finally, preceded by clouds of gas, the Arch-Comedian in person, supported by spectacled coryphees in brass hats!  How’s that for a Christmas pantomime?”

“Rotten!” said Bobby, as a shell sang over the parapet and burst in the wood behind.

II

Kaiser or no Kaiser, Major Wagstaffe’s extravagant analogy held good.  As Christmas drew nearer, the band played louder and faster; the chorus swelled higher and shriller; and it became finally apparent that something (or somebody) of portentous importance was directing the storm.

Between six and seven next morning, the Battalion, which had stood to arms all night, lifted up its heavy head and sniffed the misty dawn-wind—­an east wind—­dubiously.  Next moment gongs were clanging up and down the trench, and men were tearing open the satchels which contained their anti-gas helmets.

Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from Battalion Headquarters to take general charge of affairs in the firing-trench, buttoned the bottom edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clambered up on the firing-step to take stock of the position.  He crouched low, for a terrific bombardment was in progress, and shells were almost grazing the parapet.