Padre had already gone, leaving their seniors to hold the fort
till the last. The Signal Officer was down in the cellar, handing over
ohms, amperes, short-circuits, and other mysterious trench-stores to
his "opposite number."

Upon these occasions there is usually a good deal of time to fill in
between the arrival of the new brooms and the departure of the old.
This period of waiting may be likened to that somewhat anxious
interval with which frequenters of race-courses are familiar, between
the finish of the race and the announcement of the "All Right!"
The outgoing Headquarters are waiting for the magic words--"Relief
Complete!" Until that message comes over the buzzer, the period of
tension endures. The main point of difference is that the gentleman
who has staked his fortune on the legs of a horse has only to wait
a few minutes for the confirmation of his hopes; while a Brigadier,
whose bedtime (or even breakfast-time) is at the mercy of an errant
platoon, may have to sit up all night.

"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," said A Brigade to X
Brigade.

X Brigade complied, and having been furnished with refreshment, led
off with the inevitable question--

"Does one--er--get shelled much here?"

There was a reassuring coo from A Brigade.

"Oh, no. This is a very healthy spot. One has to be careful, of
course. No movement, or fires, or anything of that kind. A sentry or
two, to warn people against approaching over the open by day, and
you'll be as cooshie as anything!" ("Cooshie" is the latest word here.
That and "crump.")

"I ought to warn you of one thing," said the Brigadier. "Owing to
the surrounding woods, sound is most deceptive here. You will hear
shell-bursts which appear quite close, when in reality they are quite
a distance away. That, for instance!"--as a shell exploded apparently
just outside the window. "That little fellow is a couple of hundred
yards away, in the corner of the wood. The Boche has been groping
about there for a battery for the last two days."

"Is the battery there?" inquired a voice.

"No; it is farther east. But there is a Gunner's Mess about two
hundred yards from here, in that house which you passed on the way
up."

"Oh!" observed X Brigade.

Gunners are peculiar people. When professionally engaged, no men could
be more retiring. They screen their operations from the public gaze
with the utmost severity, shrouding batteries in screens of foliage
and other rustic