crossed a ditch, by the simple expedient of rolling the ditch out flat, and waddled forward.  In its path stood a young tree.  The monster arrived at the tree and laid its chin lovingly against the stem.  The tree leaned back, crackled, and assumed a horizontal position.  In the middle of the clearing, twenty yards farther on, gaped an enormous shell-crater, a present from the Kaiser.  Into this the creature plunged blindly, to emerge, panting and puffing, on the farther side.  Then it stopped.  A magic opening appeared in its stomach, from which emerged, grinning, a British subaltern and his grimy associates.

And that was our friends’ first encounter with a “Tank.”  The secret—­unlike most secrets in this publicity-ridden war—­had been faithfully kept; so far the Hush!  Hush!  Brigade had been little more than a legend even to the men high up.  Certainly the omniscient Hun received the surprise of his life when, in the early mist of a September morning some weeks later, a line of these selfsame tanks burst for the first time upon his incredulous vision, waddling grotesquely up the hill to the ridge which had defied the British infantry so long and so bloodily—­there to squat complacently down on the top of the enemy’s machine-guns, or spout destruction from her own up and down beautiful trenches which had never been intended for capture.  In fact, Brother Boche was quite plaintive about the matter.  He described the employment of such engines as wicked and brutal, and opposed to the recognised usages of warfare.  When one of these low-comedy vehicles (named the Creme-de-Menthe) ambled down the main street of the hitherto impregnable village of Flers, with hysterical British Tommies slapping her on the back, he appealed to the civilised world to step in and forbid the combination of vulgarism and barbarity.

“Let us at least fight like gentlemen,” said the Hun, with simple dignity.  “Let us stick to legitimate military devices—­the murder of women and children, and the emission of chlorine gas.  But Tanks—­no!  One must draw the line somewhere!”

But the ill-bred Creme-de-Menthe took no notice.  None whatever.  She simply went waddling on—­towards Berlin.

“An experiment, of course,” commented Colonel Kemp, as they returned to headquarters—­“a fantastic experiment.  But I wish they were ready now.  I would give something to see one of them leading the way into action to-morrow.  It might mean saving the lives of a good many of my boys.”

XI

THE LAST SOLO