and maintain dressing, and mark time if he gets confused.  In the air one cannot mark time, and it worries Fritz to death.  I think you will see, in the next unpleasantness, that we shall be able to maintain our aeroplane frontier somewhere over the enemy third line.  That means that we shall make our own dispositions with a certain degree of privacy, and the Boche will not.  Also, when our big guns get to work, they will not need to fire blindly, as in the days of our youth, but will be directed by one of our R.F.C. lads, humming about in his little bus above the target, perhaps fifteen miles from the gun.  Hallo, there go the pipes!  Tell your men to fall in.”

“The whole business,” observed Bobby, as he struggled into his equipment, “sounds so attractive that I am beginning quite to look forward to the next show!”

“Don’t forget the Boche machine-guns, my lad,” replied Wagstaffe.

“One seldom gets the chance,” grumbled Bobby.  “Is there no way of knocking them out?”

“Well—­” Wagstaffe looked intensely mysterious—­“of course one never knows, but—­have you heard any rumours on the subject?”

“I have.  About—­”

“About the Hush!  Hush!  Brigade?”

Bobby nodded.

“Yes,” he said.  “Young Osborne, my best subaltern after Angus, disappeared last month to join it.  Tell me, what is the—­”

“Hush!  Hush!” said Major Wagstaffe. “Mefiez vous!  Taisez vous! and so on!”

The battalion moved off.

So much for the war-talk of veterans.  Now let us listen to the novices.

“Bogle,” said Angus M’Lachlan to his henchman, “I think we shall have to lighten this Wolseley valise of mine.  With one thing and another it weighs far more than thirty-five pounds.”

“That’s a fact, sirr,” agreed Mr. Bogle.  “It carries ower mony books in the heid of it.”

They shook out the contents of the valise upon the floor of Angus’s bedroom—­a loft over the kitchen in “A” Company’s farm billet—­and proceeded to prune Angus’s personal effects.  There were boots, socks, shaving-tackle, maps, packets of chocolate, and books of every size, but chiefly of the ever-blessed sevenpenny type.

“A lot of these things will have to go, Bogle,” said Angus regretfully.  “The colonel has warned officers about their kits, and it would never do to have mine turned back from the waggon at the last minute.”

Mr. Bogle pricked up his ears.  “The waggon?  Are we for off again, sirr?” he inquired.

“Indeed I could not say,” replied the cautious Angus; “but it is well to be ready.”

“The boys was saying, sirr,” observed Bogle tentatively, “that there was to be another grand battle soon.”

“It is more than likely,” said Angus, with an air of profound wisdom.  “Here we are in June, and we must take the offensive, sooner or later, or summer will be over.”

“What kind o’ a battle will it be this time, sirr?” inquired Bogle respectfully.