quite a seasoned
veteran as he pointed out things to his old school chum while they drew
nearer and nearer to the thunder of the guns.

Contalmaison had already been taken with great slaughter before they
reached the firing-line, and the shadows were lengthening as they came
to a captured trench and prepared to make themselves snug for the night.

Dennis and Wetherby were taking possession of a half-demolished dug-out
when Bob made his appearance.

"If you fellows have got any coffee to spare, I'll have some with you,"
said the major. "And I recommend you to turn in all standing, for we're
expecting a big counter-attack from the direction of that wood on our
front. How have you stood the march up, Wetherby? Feel a bit knocked?"

"Nothing to speak of," laughed the new subaltern of A Company. "I'm not
too tired to enjoy the fun when it starts."

"Well, if our informations are correct, you'll see plenty of 'fun,' as
you call it, before sunrise. I've just had a chow with the Governor, and
he's as pleased as Punch that we're up in time, for I think it's going
to be pretty serious. Our airmen have brought news of exceedingly heavy
enemy reinforcements, and the German guns are holding their fire on this
sector, which all points to something."

"How's the wind?" said Dennis, over the rim of his enamelled mug.

"Dead right for Brother Boche," replied Bob, with a smile.

"I don't quite understand," ventured young Wetherby, who, in spite of
the tan of arduous training that browned his clean-shaven, boyish face,
was not ashamed to ask questions.

Like Dennis himself, he was not one of those pert modern boys who think
they know everything.

"What has the wind got to do with it?" said young Wetherby.

"Gas, old chap, gas!" replied the two brothers. "The moment you hear the
alarm, ram on your gas helmet and see the tube is working."

"And by the living Jingo!" cried the major, "there it goes!" And he shot
out of the dug-out into the trench as a man on the look out beat
furiously upon an empty shell-case dangling there for the purpose.

"Pull it right down!" shouted Dennis, giving young Wetherby a helping
hand with his helmet. "Now you're fixed. Wish there was a mirror handy;
you've no idea how well you look in it, old man."

Despite the seriousness of the moment Wetherby roared with laughter
inside the stifling, smelly cowl that made them both seem like familiars
of the Spanish Inquisition.

And then, revolvers in ha