of the Signal Sections of the Royal Engineers--tersely
described by the rank-and-file as the "Buzzers," or the
"Iddy-Umpties."

During peace-training, the Buzzer on the whole has a very pleasant
time of it. Once he has mastered the mysteries of the Semaphore
and Morse codes, the most laborious part of his education is over.
Henceforth he spends his days upon some sheltered hillside, in company
with one or two congenial spirits, flapping cryptic messages out of a
blue-and-white flag at a similar party across the valley.

A year ago, for instance, you might have encountered an old friend,
Private M'Micking,--one of the original "Buzzers" of "A" Company, and
ultimately Battalion Signal Sergeant--under the lee of a pine wood
near Hindhead, accompanied by Lance-Corporal Greig and Private
Wamphray, regarding with languid interest the frenzied efforts of
three of their colleagues to convey a message from a sunny hillside
three quarters of a mile away.

"Here a message comin' through, boys," announces the Lance-Corporal.
"They're in a sair hurry: I doot the officer will be there. Jeams,
tak' it doon while Sandy reads it."

Mr. James M'Micking seats himself upon a convenient log. In order
not to confuse his faculties by endeavouring to read and write
simultaneously, he turns his back upon the fluttering flag, and bends
low over his field message-pad. Private Wamphray stands facing him,
and solemnly spells out the message over his head.

"Tae g-o-c--I dinna ken what that means--r-e-d, _reid_--a-r-m-y,
_airmy_--h-a-z--"

"All richt; that'll be Haslemere," says Private M'Micking, scribbling
down the word. "Go on, Sandy!"

Private Wamphray, pausing to expectorate, continues--

"R-e-c-o-n-n-o-i-t-r--Cricky, what a worrd! Let's hae it repeatit."

Wamphray flaps his flag vigorously,--he knows this particular signal
only too well,--and the word comes through again. The distant
signaller, slowing down a little, continues,--

"'Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scou--'"

"That'll be 'scouts,'" says the ever-ready M'Micking. "Carry on!"

Wamphray continues obediently,--"'Country'; stop; 'Have thrown out
flank guns'; stop; 'Shall I advance or re--'"

"--tire," gabbles M'Micking, writing it down.

"--'where I am'; stop; 'From O C Advance Guard'; stop; message ends."

"And aboot time, too!" observes the scribe severely. "Haw, Johnny!"

The Lance-Corporal, who has been indulging in a pleasant reverie upon
a bank