n
a few yards of the men posted at the periscopes along the sandbagged
parapet. The electric lights were burning, and a blue haze of tobacco
smoke obscured the air from a semicircle of listeners, sitting on
packing-cases and forms round the piano on the platform, and the chorus
of "Gilbert the Filbert," sung with a will, greeted them as they
descended the stairs.

All sorts and conditions of men were gathered there--officers and
privates in mutual good fellowship. The Second-in-Command of the
Reedshires had just given them a ballad, and sung it jolly well too; and
the armourer sergeant and one of their own lieutenants were fooling
about as they waited to appear in a comic turn.

The lieutenant was dressed as a French peasant girl, and really looked
quite pretty; and the armourer sergeant was supposed to resemble George
Robey!

"Oh, there's the chap I was speaking to you about," said Captain Bob,
pointing to a wounded Highlander, whose head was enveloped in a bandage.
"He's a regular genius on the keyboard; that is why there are such a lot
of chaps here to-night. He only blew in a couple of days ago from the
brigade on our right when he heard we were lucky enough to have a
piano."

They made room for the two new-comers; and as the closing lines of the
chorus died away, there were great cries of "Jock, Jock! We want Jock!"
from the audience.

The Highland private's face expanded into a sheepish grin, and as he
stepped up on to the platform you could have heard the proverbial pin
drop. Not a sound but that dull burst and boom that they had all got
used to and scarcely heard now, and then the keys of the piano broke in
upon the tense hush, touched by a master hand.

"Isn't that fine!" whispered the Second-in-Command, who was sitting next
to Dennis. "When this beastly war has finished that man would fill
Queen's Hall to the roof. And to think he's just one of Kitchener's
privates, and the first pip-squeak that comes his way may still that
marvellous gift for ever!"

Dennis nodded, for the improvised melody which had just ceased had
touched him, as it had touched every man in the room.

But there is no time for sentiment in the trenches; it is out of place
there, and after a roar of "Bravo!" and a great clapping of hands had
succeeded a momentary pause, voices cried clamorously: "Give us that
thing you sang last night, Jock--that song with the whistling chorus!"

"Now you'll hear the reverse of the medal, and upon