creaked open and admitted a swirl of sleety
snow, a gust of bitter cold wind, and the Bombardier. A little group of
men round a guttering candle-lamp looked up.

'Hello, Father Christmas,' said the Centre Driver. 'You're a bit late
for your proper day, but we'll let you off that if you fill our stockin's
up proper.'

'Wipe yer feet careful on the mat,' said the Lead Driver, 'an' put yer
umbrella in the 'all stand.'

''Ere, don't go shakin' that snow all over the straw,' said the Wheel
Driver indignantly. 'I'm goin' to sleep there presently an' the straw's
damp enough as it is.'

'Glad you're so sure about sleepin' there,' the Bombardier said,
divesting himself of his bandolier and struggling out of his snow-covered
coat. 'By the look o' things, it's quite on the cards you get turned out
presently an' have to take up some pills to the guns.'

'Pretty busy to-night, ain't they?' said the Centre Driver. 'We heard
'em bumpin' away good-oh.'

'You don't 'ear the 'alf of it back 'ere,' said the Bombardier. 'Wind's
blowin' most o' the row away. They're goin' it hot an' strong. Now
where's my mess-tin got to? 'Aven't 'ad no tea yet, an' it's near eight
o'clock. I'm just about froze through too.'

'Here y'are,' said the Centre Driver, throwing a mess-tin over. 'An' the
cook kep' tea hot for you an' the rest that was out.'

'Pull that door shut be'ind you,' said the Wheel Driver. 'This barn's
cold as a ice-'ouse already, an' the roof leaks like a broke sieve.
Billet! Strewth, it ain't 'arf a billet!'

The Bombardier returned presently with a mess-tin of 'raw' (milkless and
sugarless) tea and proceeded to make a meal off that, some stone-hard
biscuits and the scrapings of a pot of jam.

'What sort o' trip did you 'ave?' asked the Centre Driver. 'Anyways
peaceful, or was you dodgin' the Coal-Boxes this time?'

'Not a Coal-Box, or any other box,' said the Bombardier, hammering a
biscuit to fragments with a rifle-butt. 'An' I 'aven't 'ad a shell drop
near me for a week.'

'If we keeps on like this,' said the Centre Driver, 'we'll get fancyin'
we're back on Long Valley man-oovers.'

'Wot you grousin' about anyway?' remarked the Wheel Driver. 'This is a
Ammunition Column, ain't it? Or d'you s'pose it's an Am. Col.'s bizness
to go chasin' after bombardments an' shell-fire. If you ain't satisfied
you'd better try'n get transferred to the trenches.'

'Or if that's too peaceful for you,' put in the Lead