The guide, now in his own territory, selected the muddiest opening and plunged down it.  For two hundred yards or so he continued serenely upon his way, with the air of one exhibiting the metropolis to a party of country cousins.  He passed numerous turnings.  Then, once or twice, he paused irresolutely; then moved on.  Finally he halted, and proceeded to climb out of the trench.

“What are you doing?” demanded Ayling suspiciously.

“We got to cut across the open ’ere, sir,” said the youth glibly.  “Trench don’t go no farther.  Keep as low as you can.”

With resigned grunts the weary pilgrims hoisted themselves and their numerous burdens out of their slimy thoroughfare, and followed their conductor through the long grass in single file, feeling painfully conspicuous against the whitening sky.  Presently they discovered, and descended into, another trench—­all but the man with the tripod, who descended into it before he discovered it—­and proceeded upon their dolorous way.  Once more the guide, who had been refreshingly but ominously silent for some time, paused irresolutely.

“Look here, my man,” said Ayling, “do you, or do you not, know where you are?”

The paragon replied hesitatingly:—­

“Well, sir, if we’d come by the way I—­”

Ayling took a deep breath, and though conscious of the presence of formidable competitors, was about to make the best of an officer’s vocabulary, when a kilted figure loomed out of the darkness.

“Hallo!  Who are you?” inquired Ayling.

“This iss the Camerons’ trenches, sirr,” replied a polite West Highland voice.  “What trenches wass you seeking?”

Ayling told him.

“They are behind you, sirr.”

“I was just goin’ to say, sir,” chanted the guide, making one last effort to redeem his prestige, “as ’ow—­”

“Party,” commanded Ayling, “about turn!”

Having received details of the route from the friendly Cameron, he scrambled out of the trench and crawled along to what was now the head of the procession.  A plaintive voice followed him.

“Beg pardon, sir, where shall I go now?”

Ayling answered the question explicitly, and moved off, feeling much better.  The late conductor of the party trailed disconsolately in the rear.

“I should like to know wot I’m ’ere for,” he murmured indignantly.

He got his answer, like a lightning-flash.

“For tae carry this,” said the man with the tripod, turning round.  “Here, caatch!”

II