“How many, Bobby?”

“Six wounded.  Two of them won’t last as far as the rear, I’m afraid, sir.”

Captain Blaikie looks grave.

“Better ring up the Gunners, I think.  Where are the shells coming from?”

“That wood on our left front, I think.”

“That’s P 27.  Telephone orderly, there?”

A figure appears in the doorway.

“Yes, sirr.”

“Ring up Major Cavanagh, and say that H 21 is being shelled from P 27.  Retaliate!”

“Verra good, sirr.”

The telephone orderly disappears, to return in five minutes.

“Major Cavanagh’s compliments, sirr, and he is coming up himself for tae observe from the firing trench.”

“Good egg!” observes Captain Blaikie.  “Now we shall see some shooting, Bobby!”

Presently the Gunner major arrives, accompanied by an orderly, who pays out wire as he goes.  The major adjusts his periscope, while the orderly thrusts a metal peg into the ground and fits a telephone receiver to his head.

“Number one gun!” chants the major, peering into his periscope; “three-five-one-nothing—­lyddite—­fourth charge!”

These mystic observations are repeated into the telephone by the Cockney orderly, in a confidential undertone.

“Report when ready!” continues the major.

“Report when ready!” echoes the orderly.  Then—­“Number one gun ready, sir!”

“Fire!”

“Fire!” Then, politely—­“Number one has fired, sir.”

The major stiffens to his periscope, and Bobby Little, deeply interested, wonders what has become of the report of the gun.  He forgets that sound does not travel much faster than a thousand feet a second, and that the guns are a mile and a half back.  Presently, however, there is a distant boom.  Almost simultaneously the lyddite shell passes overhead with a scream.  Bobby, having no periscope, cannot see the actual result of the shot, though he tempts Providence (and Zacchaeus) by peering over the top of the parapet.

“Number one, two-nothing minutes more right,” commands the major.  “Same range and charge.”

Once more the orderly goes through his ritual, and presently another shell screams overhead.

Again the major observes the result.

“Repeat!” he says.  “Nothing-five seconds more right.”

This time he is satisfied.

“Parallel lines on number one,” he commands crisply.  “One round battery fire—­twenty seconds!”

For the last time the order is passed down the wire, and the major hands his periscope to the ever-grateful Bobby, who has hardly got his eyes to the glass when the round of battery fire commences.  One—­two—­three—­four—­the avenging shells go shrieking on their way, at intervals of twenty seconds.  There are four muffled thuds, and four great columns of earth and debris spring up before the wood.  Answer comes there none.  The offending battery has prudently effaced itself.