“Good.  And the people over the way?”

“Unobtrusive and retiring to a degree.”

“In fact,” I said, “a most select neighbourhood—­unless it thaws.”

He dropped pleasantries and answered very seriously.  “If it thaws, Heaven help you.  There’s enough water frozen up in these walls to drown the lot of you.”

It did thaw.

When we relieved, we waded up to the line through miles of trenches all knee-deep in water, to the accompaniment of ominous splashes as the sides began to fall in.  When daylight came we found our select estate converted into a system of canals filled with a substance varying in consistency from coffee to glue.  Hic, Haec and Hoc, owing to the wear and tear of constant traffic, became especially gluey, and after a time we rechristened them respectively the Great Ooze, the Little Ooze and the River Styx—­the last not solely in reference to its adhesive qualities, but also because such a number of things went West in it.  Some time after the original duck-boards had sunk out of our depth we could still move along Styx on a solid bottom composed of lost gum-boots, abandoned rations and the like.  At last, when Frankie, struggling up to the line with the rum ration, was forced to dump his precious burden in order to save his life, we pronounced Styx impassable and thenceforth proceeded along the top after dusk.

The Great Ooze still remained just possible for those whose business took them back and forward during the day, but even here were spots in which it was worse than unwise to linger.  As I squelched painfully through one of these on our last day in the line, I found one Private Harrison firmly embedded to the top of his thigh-boots.  He told me he had been struggling vainly for about an hour.

“Give me your hands,” I said.

I tugged, but could get no proper purchase.  Harrison grew gradually black in the face, but remained immovable.  I tried another plan.  I turned about, and Harrison clasped his hands round my neck.  Then I walked away....  At least that was the idea.

“Harrison,” I said anxiously after a determined struggle, “were you standing on the duckboards?”

“Yes, Sir.  I still am.”

“Heavens, so am I. Let go.  I’ve got to get myself out now.”

By using Harrison as a stepping-stone to higher things I just managed to heave myself out.  I surveyed him panting.

“In about an hour it’ll be dusk.  I’ll bring some men and a rope and haul you out then.  If that fails we’ll simply have to hand you over as trench stores when we get relieved.”

As soon as Fritz’s wire had disappeared into the gathering gloom I took out my little rescue party.  We threw the captive a rope and began to pull scientifically under direction of a sergeant skilled in tugs-of-war.

“Heave, you men,” I whispered excitedly.  “He’s coming.”

He was, but without his boots.  Inch by inch we dragged him out of them.  The strain was terrific.  Suddenly—­much too suddenly—­the tension broke.  Harrison shot into the air and fell again with a dull thud in the Ooze beside his boots, while the rescue party collapsed head over heels into an adjacent shell-hole.