Private Robinson's
ear.

''Ark!' he said in eager anticipation. 'I do believe it's--s-sh!
There!' triumphantly, as again the word rang out--the one word at the
end of the verse . . . '_England_.'

'It's _it_. It's the "'Ymn of 'Ate"!'

The word flew down the British trench--'It's the 'Ymn! They're singin'
the "'Ymn of 'Ate,"' and every man sat drinking the air in eagerly.
This was luck, pure gorgeous luck. Hadn't the Towers, like many
another regiment, heard about the famous 'Hymn of Hate,' and read it in
the papers, and had it declaimed with a fine frenzy by Private 'Enery
Irving? Hadn't they, like plenty other regiments, longed to hear the
tune, but longed in vain, never having found one who knew it? And here
it was being sung to them in full chorus by the Germans themselves.
Oh, this _was_ luck.

The mouth-organist was sitting with his mouth open and his head turned
to listen, as if afraid to miss a single note.

''Ave you got it, Snapper?' whispered Private Robinson anxiously at the
end. 'Will you be able to remember it?'

Snapper, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, began to play the air over
softly, when from further down the trench came a murmur of applause,
that rose to a storm of hand-clappings and shouts of 'Bravo!' and
'Encore--'core--'core!'

The mouth-organist played on unheedingly and Private Robinson sat
following him with attentive ear.

'I'm not sure of that bit just there,' said the player, and tried it
over with slight variations. 'P'raps I'll remember it better after a
day or two. I'm like that wi' some toons.'

'We might kid 'em to sing it again,' said Robinson hopefully, as
another loud cry of 'Encore!' rang from the trench.

'Was you know vat we haf sing?' asked a German voice in tones of some
wonderment.

'It's a great song, Dutchie,' replied Private Robinson. 'Fine
song--goot--bong! Sing it again to us.'

'You haf not understand,' said the German angrily, and then suddenly
from a little further along the German trench a clear tenor rose,
singing the Hymn in English. The Towers subsided into rapt silence,
hugging themselves over their stupendous luck. When the singer came to
the end of the verse he paused an instant, and a roar leaped from the
German trench . . . 'England!' It died away and the singer took up the
solo. Quicker and quicker he sang, the song swirling upward in a
rising note of passion. It checked and hung an instant on the last
line, as a curling wave