The last sentence rang out with uncanny distinctness, for the German guns with one accord had ceased firing.  For a full two minutes there was absolute silence, while the bayonets in the opposite trenches twinkled with tenfold intent.

Then, from every point in the great Salient of Ypres, the British guns replied.

Possibly the Imperial General Staff at Berlin had been misinformed as to the exact strength of the British Artillery.  Possibly they had been informed by their Intelligence Department that Trades Unionism, had ensured that a thoroughly inadequate supply of shells was to hand in the Salient.  Or possibly they had merely decided, after the playful habit of General Staffs, to let the infantry in the trenches take their chance of any retaliation that might be forthcoming.

Whatever these great men were expecting, it is highly improbable that they expected that which arrived.  Suddenly the British batteries spoke out, and they all spoke together.  In the space of four minutes they deposited thirty thousand high-explosive shells in the Boche front-line trenches—­yea, distributed the same accurately and evenly along all that crowded arc.  Then they paused, as suddenly as they began, while British riflemen and machine-gunners bent to their work.

But few received the order to fire.  Here and there a wave of men broke over the German parapet and rolled towards the British lines—­only to be rolled back crumpled up by machine-guns.  Never once was the goal reached.  The great Christmas attack was over.  After months of weary waiting and foolish recrimination, that exasperating race of bad starters but great stayers, the British people, had delivered “the goods,” and made it possible for their soldiers to speak with the enemy in the gate upon equal—­nay, superior, terms.

“Is that all?” asked Bobby Little, peering out over the parapet, a little awe-struck, at the devastation over the way.

“That is all,” said Wagstaffe, “or I’m a Boche!  There will be much noise and some irregular scrapping for days, but the tin lid has been placed upon the grand attack.  The great Christmas Victory is off!”

Then he added, thoughtfully, referring apparently to the star performer:—­

“We have been and spoiled his entrance for him, haven’t we?”

V

UNBENDING THE BOW

I

There is a certain type of English country-house female who is said to “live in her boxes.”  That is to say, she appears to possess no home of her own, but flits from one indulgent roof-tree to another; and owing to the fact that she is invariably put into a bedroom whose wardrobe is full of her hostess’s superannuated ball-frocks and winter furs, never knows what it is to have all her “things” unpacked at once.

Well, we out here cannot be said to live in our boxes, for we do not possess any; but we do most undoubtedly live in our haversacks and packs.  And this brings us to the matter in hand—­namely, so-called “Rest-Billets.”  The whole of the hinterland of this great trench-line is full of tired men, seeking for a place to lie down in, and living in their boxes when they find one.