price of some tons of old iron.

Some of the men wandered about amongst the ruins, examining them
curiously, tracing the work of individual shells, speculating on the
number of hands the place had once employed, and where those hands were
now.

'Man, man,' said a Scottish private, 'sic an awfu' waste. Think o' the
siller it must ha' cost.'

''Ow would you like to be a shareholder in the company, Jock?' said his
companion. 'Ain't many divvydends due to 'em this Christmas.'

The Scot shook his head sadly. 'This place an' the hale toon laid
waste,' he said. 'It's awfu' tae think o' it.'

'An' this is one bloomin' pebble in a whole bloomin' beach,' said the
other. 'D'you remember Wipers an' all them other towns? An' that old
chap we saw sittin' on the roadside weepin' 'is eyes out 'cos the farm
an' the fruit-trees 'e'd spent 'is life fixin' up was blowed to glory
b' Jack Johnsons. We 'ave seed some rummy shows 'ere, 'aven't we? Not
but what this ain't a pretty fair sample o' wreck,' he continued
critically. 'There's plenty 'ud think they'd got their two-pennorth to
see this on the screen o' a picture-show at 'ome, Jock.'

'Huh! Picturs!' sniffed Jock. 'Picturs, and the-ayters, and racin',
and fitba'. Ah wanner folks hasna better use for their time and money,
at sic a time 's this.'

'Aw,' said the other, 'But y' forget, Jock. Out 'ere they 'ave their
'ouses blown up an' their business blown in. A thousan' a day o' the
like o' you an' me may be gettin' killed off for six months on end.
But at 'ome, Jock--aw!'

He stooped and picked up a lump of white, chalky earth from the
roadside, scrawled with it on the huge boiler-end that rested on the
broken wall, and left the written words to finish the spoken sentence.

Jock read, and later the remains of the Regiment read as they moved off
past the aching desolation of the silent factory, down the shell-torn
road, across the war-swept ruins of a whole country-side. A few
scowled at the thoughts the words raised, the most grinned and passed
rough jests; but to all those men in the thinned ranks, their dead
behind them, the scenes of ruin before them, the words bit, and bit
deep. They ran:

But it's
Bisness As Usual
--AT HOME.

A HYMN OF HATE

'_The troops continue in excellent spirits._'--EXTRACT FROM OFFICIAL
DESPATCH.

To appreciate properly, from the Army's point of view, the humour of
this story, it must always be remembered