“We are a great nation,” he remarked contentedly.  “I was a bit anxious about things at home, but I see now there was nothing to worry about.  We shall win all right.  Well, I am off to the Mess.  See you later, everybody!”

“Meanwhile,” inquired Wagstaffe, as the party settled down again, “what is brewing here!  I haven’t seen the adjutant yet.”

“You’ll see him soon enough,” replied Blaikie grimly.  He glanced over his shoulder towards the four civilian card-players.  They looked bourgeois enough and patriotic enough, but it is wise to take no risks in a cafe, as a printed notice upon the war, signed by the Provost-Marshal, was careful to point out.  “Come for a stroll,” he said.

Presently the two captains found themselves in a shady boulevard leading to the outskirts of the town.  Darkness was falling, and soon would be intense; for lights are taboo in the neighbourhood of the firing line.

“Have we finished that new trench in front of our wire?” asked Wagstaffe.

“Yes.  It is the best thing we have done yet.  Divisional Headquarters are rightly pleased about it.”

Blaikie gave details.  The order had gone forth that a new trench was to be constructed in front of our present line—­a hundred yards in front.  Accordingly, when night fell, two hundred unconcerned heroes went forth, under their subalterns, and, squatting down in line along a white tape (laid earlier in the evening by our imperturbable friends, Lieutenants Box and Cox, of the Royal Engineers), proceeded to dig the trench.  Thirty yards ahead of them, facing the curious eyes of countless Bosches, lay a covering party in extended order, ready to repel a rush.  Hour by hour the work went on—­skilfully, silently.  On these occasions it is impossible to say what will happen.  The enemy knows we are there:  he can see us quite plainly.  But he has his own night-work to do, and if he interferes with us he knows that our machine-guns will interfere with him.  So, provided that our labours are conducted in a manner which is neither ostentatious nor contemptuous—­that is to say, provided we do not talk, whistle, or smoke—­he leaves us more or less alone.

But this particular task was not accomplished without loss:  it was too obviously important.  Several times the German machine-guns sputtered into flame, and each time the stretcher-bearers were called upon to do their duty.  Yet the work went on to its accomplishment, without question, without slackening.  The men were nearly all experts:  they had handled pick and shovel from boyhood.  Soldiers of the line would have worked quite as hard, maybe, but they would have taken twice as long.  But these dour sons of Scotland worked like giants—­trained giants.  In four nights the trench, with traverses and approaches, was complete.  The men who had made it fell back to their dug-outs, and shortly afterwards to their billets—­there to spend the few odd francs which their separation allotments had left them, upon extremely hard-earned glasses of extremely small beer.