Spike Johnson merely smiled, with the easy assurance of a man who has the ace up his sleeve.

“Oh yes, they was!” he reiterated.

“They werre not!” shouted half a dozen voices.

The next stage of the discussion requires no description.  It terminated, at the urgent request of Madame from behind the bar, and with the assistance of the Military Police, in the street outside.

“And now, Spike Johnson,” inquired Private Cosh, breathing heavily but much refreshed, “can you tell me what way Gairmans could get intil the trenches of a guid Scots regiment withoot bein’ seen?”

“I can,” replied Mr. Johnson with relish, “and I will.  They got in all right, but you didn’t see them, because they was disguised.”

Cosh and Tosh snorted disdainfully, and Private Nigg, who was present with his friend Buncle, inquired—­

“What way was they disguised?”

Like lightning came the answer—­

“As a joke!  Oh, you Jocks.”

Cosh and Tosh (who had already been warned by the Police sergeant) merely glared and gurgled impotently.  Private Nigg, who, as already mentioned, was slightly wanting in quickness of perception, was led away by the faithful Buncle, to have the outrage explained to him at leisure.  It was Private Bogle who intervened, and brought the intellectual Goliath crashing to the ground.

“Man, Johnson,” he remarked, and shook his head mournfully, “youse ought to be varra careful aboot sayin’ things like that to the likes of us.  ’Deed aye!”

“What for, ole son?” inquired the jester indulgently.

“Naithing,” replied Bogle with artistic reticence.

“Come along—­aht with it!” insisted Johnson.  “Cough it up, duckie!”

“Man, man,” cried Bogle with passionate earnestness, “dinna gang ower far!”

“What the ’ell for?” inquired Johnson, impressed despite himself.

“What for?” Bogle’s voice dropped to a ghostly whisper.  “Has it ever occurred to you, my mannie, what would happen tae the English—­if Scotland was tae make a separate peace?”

And Mr. Bogle retired, not before it was time, within the sheltering portals of the estaminet, where not less than seven inarticulate but appreciative fellow-countrymen offered him refreshment.

X

FULL CHORUS

I

An Observation Post—­or “O Pip,” in the mysterious patois of the Buzzers—­is not exactly the spot that one would select either for spaciousness or accessibility.  It may be situated up a chimney or up a tree, or down a tunnel bored through a hill.  But it certainly enables you to see something of your enemy; and that, in modern warfare, is a very rare and valuable privilege.