So the talk ran on.  Young Lochgair, heir to untold acres in the far north and master of unlimited pocket-money, admitted frankly that the sum of eight-and-sixpence per day, which he was now earning by the sweat of his brow and the expenditure of shoe-leather, was sweeter to him than honey in the honeycomb.  Hattrick, who had recently put up a plate in Harley Street, said it was good to be earning a living wage at last.  Mr. Waddell, pressed to say a few words of encouragement of the present campaign, delivered himself of a guarded but illuminating eulogy of war as a cure for indecision of mind; from which, coupled with a coy reference to “some one” in distant St. Andrews, the company were enabled to gather that Mr. Waddell had carried a position with his new sword which had proved impregnable to civilian assault.

Only Bobby Little was silent.  In all this genial symposium there had been no word of the spur which was inciting him—­and doubtless the others—­along the present weary and monotonous path; and on the whole he was glad that it should be so.  None of us care to talk, even privately, about the Dream of Honour and the Hope of Glory.  The only difference between Bobby and the others was that while they could cover up their aspirations with a jest, Bobby must say all that was in his heart, or keep silent.  So he held his peace.

A tall figure loomed against the starlit sky, and Captain Wagstaffe, who had been out in the trench, spoke quickly to Major Kemp:—­

“I thing we had better get to our places, sir.  Some criminal has cut my alarm-cord!”

V

Five minutes previously, Private Bain, lulled to a sense of false security by the stillness of the night, had opened his eyes, which had been closed for purposes of philosophic reflection, to find himself surrounded by four ghostly figures in greatcoats.  With creditable presence of mind he jerked his alarm-cord.  But, alas! the cord came with his hand.

He was now a prisoner, and his place in the scout-line was being used as a point of deployment for the attacking force.

“We’re extended right along the line now,” said Captain Mackintosh to Simson.  “I can’t wait any longer for Shand:  he has probably lost himself.  The sentries are all behind us.  Pass the word along to crawl forward.  Every man to keep as low as he can, and dress by the right.  No one to charge unless he hears my whistle, or is fired on.”

The whispered word—­Captain Mackintosh knows when to whisper quite as well as Captain Shand—­runs down the line, and presently we begin to creep forward, stooping low.  Sometimes we halt; sometimes we swing back a little; but on the whole we progress.  Once there is a sudden exclamation.  A highly-strung youth, crouching in a field drain, has laid his hand upon what looks and feels like a clammy human face, lying recumbent and staring heavenward.  Too late, he recognises a derelict scarecrow with a turnip head.  Again, there is a pause while the extreme right of the line negotiates an unexpected barbed-wire fence.  Still, we move on, with enormous caution.  We are not certain where the trenches are, but they must be near.  At any moment a crackling volley may leap out upon us.  Pulses begin to beat.