. Wagstaffe placed his head close
to Bobby's left ear, and shouted through the cloth--

"We shan't feel this gas much. They're letting it off higher up the
line. Look!"

Bobby, laboriously inhaling the tainted air inside his helmet,--being
preserved from a gas attack is only one degree less unpleasant than
being gassed,--turned his goggles northward.

In the dim light of the breaking day he could discern a
greenish-yellow cloud rolling across from the Boche trenches on his
left.

"Will they attack?" he bellowed.

Wagstaffe nodded his head, and then cautiously unbuttoned his collar
and rolled up the front of his helmet. Then, after delicately sampling
the atmosphere by a cautious sniff, he removed his helmet altogether.
Bobby followed his example. The air was not by any means so pure as
might have been desired, but it was infinitely preferable to that
inside a gas-helmet.

"Nothing to signify," pronounced Wagstaffe. "We're only getting the
edge of it. Sergeant, pass down that men may roll up their helmets,
but must keep them on their heads. Now, Bobby, things are getting
interesting. Will they attack, or will they not?"

"What do you think?" asked Bobby.

"They are certainly going to attack farther north. The Boche does not
waste gas as a rule--not this sort of gas! And I think he'll attack
here too. The only reason why he has not switched on our anaesthetic
is that the wind isn't quite right for this bit of the line. I think
it is going to be a general push. Bobby, have a look through this
sniper's loophole. Can you see any bayonets twinkling in the Boche
trenches?"

Bobby applied an eye to the loophole.

"Yes," he said, "I can see them. Those trenches must be packed with
men."

"Absolutely stiff with them," agreed Wagstaffe, getting out his
revolver. "We shall be in for it presently. Are your fellows all
ready, Bobby?"

The youthful Captain ran his eye along the trench, where his Company,
with magazines loaded and bayonets fixed, were grimly awaiting the
onset. There had been an onset similar to this, with the same green,
nauseous accompaniment, in precisely the same spot eight months
before, which had broken the line and penetrated for four miles.
There it had been stayed by a forlorn hope of cooks, brakesmen, and
officers' servants, and disaster had been most gloriously retrieved.
What was going to happen this time? One thing was certain: the day of
stink-pots was over.

"When do you think they'll