And there is a wealth of homely sentiment and honest affection which holds up its head without shame even in the presence of the Censor.  One rather pathetic screed, beginning:  Well, wife, I doubt this will be a poor letter, for I canna get one of they green envelopes to-day, but I’ll try my best—­Bobby Little sealed and signed without further scrutiny.

V

One more picture, to close the record of our trivial round.

It is a dark, moist, and most unpleasant dawn.  Captain Blaikie stands leaning against a traverse in the fire-trench, superintending the return of a party from picket duty.  They file in, sleepy and dishevelled, through an archway in the parapet, on their way to dug-outs and repose.  The last man in the procession is Bobby Little, who has been in charge all night.

Our line here makes a sharp bend round the corner of an orchard, and for security’s sake a second trench has been cut behind, making, as it were, the cross-bar of a capital A. The apex of the A is no health resort.  Brother Bosche, as already explained, is only fifty yards away, and his trench-mortars make excellent practice with the parapet.  So the Orchard Trench is only occupied at night, and the alternative route, which is well constructed and comparatively safe, is used by all careful persons who desire to proceed from one arm of the A to the other.

The present party are the night picket, thankfully relinquishing their vigil round the apex.

Bobby Little remained to bid his company-commander good-morning at the junction of the two trenches.

“Any casualties?” An invariable question at this spot.

“No, sir.  We were lucky.  There was a lot of sniping.”

“It’s a rum profession,” mused Captain Blaikie, who was in a wakeful mood.

“In what way, sir?” inquired the sleepy but respectful Bobby.

“Well”—­Captain Blaikie began to fill his pipe—­“who takes about nine-tenths of the risk, and does practically all the hard work in the Army?  The private and the subaltern—­you and your picket, in fact.  Now, here is the problem which has puzzled me ever since I joined the Army, and I’ve had nineteen years’ service.  The farther away you remove the British soldier from the risk of personal injury, the higher you pay him.  Out here, a private of the line gets about a shilling a day.  For that he digs, saps, marches, and fights like a hero.  The motor-transport driver gets six shillings a day, no danger, and lives like a fighting cock.  The Army Service Corps drive about in motors, pinch our rations, and draw princely incomes.  Staff Officers are compensated for their comparative security by extra cash, and first chop at the war medals.  Now—­why?”

“I dare say they would sooner be here, in the trenches, with us,” was Bobby’s characteristic reply.

Blaikie lit his pipe—­it was almost broad daylight now—­and considered.