That evening, when the scouts doubled ahead, Lieutenant Simson had halted them upon the skirts of a dark, dreich plantation, and said—­

“A and B Companies represent the enemy.  They are beyond that crest, finishing the trenches which were begun the ’other day.  They intend to hold these against our attack.  Our only chance is to take them by surprise.  As they will probably have thrown out a line of outposts, you scouts will now scatter and endeavour to get through that line, or at least obtain exact knowledge of its composition.  My belief is that the enemy will content themselves with placing a piquet on each of the two roads which run through their position; but it is possible that they will also post sentry-groups in the wood which lies between.  However, that is what you have to find out.  Don’t go and get captured.  Move!”

The scouts silently scattered, and each man set out to pierce his allotted section of the enemy’s position.  Private Dunshie, who had hoped for a road, or at least a cart-track, to follow, found himself, by the worst of luck, assigned to a portion of the thick belt of wood which stretched between the two roads.  Nature had not intended him for a pioneer:  he was essentially a city man.  However, he toiled on, rending the undergrowth, putting up game, falling over tree-roots, and generally acting as advertising agent for the approaching attack.

By way of contrast, two hundred yards to his right, picking his way with cat-like care and rare enjoyment, was Private M’Snape.  He was of the true scout breed.  In the dim and distant days before the call of the blood had swept him into “K(1),” he had been a Boy Scout of no mean repute.  He was clean in person and courteous in manner.  He could be trusted to deliver a message promptly.  He could light a fire in a high wind with two matches, and provide himself with a meal of sorts where another would have starved.  He could distinguish an oak from an elm, and was sufficiently familiar with the movements of the heavenly bodies to be able to find his way across country by night.  He was truthful, and amenable to discipline.  In short, he was the embodiment of a system which in times of peace had served as a text for innumerable well-meaning but muddle-headed politicians of a certain type, who made a specialty of keeping the nation upon the alert against the insidious encroachments of—­Heaven help us!—­Militarism!

To-night all M’Snape’s soul was set on getting through the enemy’s outpost line, and discovering a way of ingress for the host behind him.  He had no map, but he had the Plough and a fitful moon to guide him, and he held a clear notion of the disposition of the trenches in his retentive brain.  On his left he could hear the distressing sounds of Dunshie’s dolorous progress; but these were growing fainter.  The reason was that Dunshie, like most persons who follow the line of least resistance, was walking in a circle.  In fact, a few minutes later his circuitous path brought him out upon the long straight road which ran up over the hill towards the trenches.