A sudden and pertinent thought occurred to Mr. Bogle, who possessed a Martha-like nature.

“What way, sir, will a body get his dinner, if we are to be fighting for twa-three days on end?”

“Every man,” replied Angus, “will be issued, I expect, with two days’ rations.  But the Colonel tells me that during hard fighting a man does not feel the desire for food—­or sleep either for that matter.  Perhaps, during a lull, it may occur to him that he has not eaten since yesterday, and he may pull out a bit of biscuit or chocolate from his pocket, just to nibble.  Or he may remember that he has had no sleep for twenty-four hours—­so he just drops down and sleeps for ten minutes while there is time.  But generally, matters of ordinary routine drop out of a man’s thoughts altogether.”

“That’s a queer-like thing, a body forgetting his dinner!” murmured Bogle.

“Of course,” continued Angus, warming to his theme like his own father in his pulpit, “if Nature is expelled with a pitchfork in this manner, for too long, tamen usque recurret.”

“Is that a fact?” replied Bogle politely.  He always adopted the line of least resistance when his master took to audible rumination.  “Weel, I’ll hae to be steppin’, sir.  I’ll pit these twa blankets oot in the sun, in some place where the dooks frae the pond will no get dandering ower them.  And if you’ll sorrt your books, I’ll hand ower the yins ye dinna require to the Y.M.C.A. hut ayont the village.”

Bogle cherished a profound admiration for Lieutenant M’Lachlan both as a scholar and a strategist, and absorbed his deliverances with a care and attention which enabled him to misquote the same quite fluently to his own associates.  That very evening he set forth the coming plan of campaign, as elucidated to him by his master, to a mixed assemblage at the Estaminet au Clef des Champs.  Some of the party were duly impressed; but Mr. Spike Johnson, a resident in peaceful times of Stratford-atte-Bow, the recognised humourist of the Sappers’ Field Company attached to the Brigade, was pleased to be facetious.

“It won’t be no good you Jocks goin’ over no parapet to attack no ’Uns,” he said, “after what ’appened last week!”

This dark saying had the effect of rousing every Scottish soldier in the estaminet to a state of bristling attention.

“And what was it,” inquired Private Cosh with heat, “that happened last week?”

“Why,” replied Mr. Johnson, who had been compounding this jest for some days, and now saw his opportunity to deliver it with effect at short range, “your trenches got raided last Wednesday, when you was in’ em.  By the Brandyburgers, I think it was.”

The entire symposium stared at the jester with undisguised amazement.

“Our—­trenches,” proclaimed Private Tosh with forced calm, “were never raided by no—­Brandyburrrgerrs!  Was they, Jimmie?”

Mr. Cosh corroborated, with three adjectives which Mr. Tosh had not thought of.