“That’ll be ‘scouts,’” says the ever-ready M’Micking.  “Carry on!”

Wamphray continues obediently,—­“‘Country’; stop; ’Have thrown out flank guns’; stop; ‘Shall I advance or re—­’”

“—­tire,” gabbles M’Micking, writing it down.

“—­’where I am’; stop; ‘From O C Advance Guard’; stop; message ends.”

“And aboot time, too!” observes the scribe severely.  “Haw, Johnny!”

The Lance-Corporal, who has been indulging in a pleasant reverie upon a bank of bracken, wakes up and reads the proffered message.

* * * * *

“Tae G O C, Reid Airmy, Hazlemere.  Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scouts country.  Have thrown oot flank guns.  Shall I advance or retire where I am?  From O C Advance Guard.”

“This message doesna sound altogether sense,” he observes mildly.  “That ‘shall’ should be ‘wull,’ onyway.  Would it no’ be better to get it repeatit?  The officer—­”

“I’ve given the ‘message-read’ signal now,” objects the indolent Wamphray.

“How would it be,” suggests the Lance-Corporal, whose besetting sin is a penchant for emendation, “if we were tae transfair yon stop, and say:  ’Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scouts.  Country has thrown oot flank guns’?”

“What does that mean?” inquires M’Micking scornfully.

“I dinna ken; but these messages about Generals and sic’-like bodies—­”

At this moment, as ill-luck will have it, the Signal Sergeant appears breasting the hillside.  He arrives puffing—­he has seen twenty years’ service—­and scrutinises the message.

“You boys,” he says reproachfully, “are an aggravate altogether.  Here you are, jumping at your conclusions again!  After all I have been telling you!  See!  That worrd in the address should no’ be Haslemere at all.  It’s just a catch!  It’s Hazebroucke—­a Gairman city that we’ll be capturing this time next year.  ‘Scouts’ is no ‘scouts,’ but ’scouring’—­meaning ‘sooping up.’  ‘Guns’ should be ‘guarrd,’ and ‘retire’ should be ‘remain.’  Mind me, now; next time, you’ll be up before the Captain for neglect of duty.  Wamphray, give the ‘C.I.,’ and let’s get hame to oor dinners!”

II

But “oot here” there is no flag-wagging.  The Buzzer’s first proceeding upon entering the field of active hostilities is to get underground, and stay there.

He is a seasoned vessel, the Buzzer of to-day, and a person of marked individuality.  He is above all things a man of the world.  Sitting day and night in a dug-out, or a cellar, with a telephone receiver clamped to his ear, he sees little; but he hears much, and overhears more.  He also speaks a language of his own.  His one task in life is to prevent the letter B from sounding like C, or D, or P, or T, or V, over the telephone; so he has perverted the English language to his own uses.  He calls B