uld
have been seen like a terrier with his nose down a rabbit-hole, lying
flat at the bottom of the trench, peering into a noisome and
foul-smelling cavity underneath him.

"My dear old boy," he remarked, enthusiastically, to a brother
subaltern, who was watching the proceeding coldly, "it's an old German
dug-out; I'm certain it's an old German dug-out."

"I don't care a damn if it is," answered the other, without enthusiasm.
"It stinks like a polecat, and is undoubtedly full of all creeping
things. For heaven's sake, let's go and get something to eat."

Slowly and reluctantly Percy allowed himself to be led away, thinking
deeply. Only the week before had the Hun attempted a raid and actually
entered the trench close to the spot in question, and here was
apparently a ready-made man-trap should he do so again. After
breakfast he would explore his find; after breakfast he would himself
set to work and labour unceasingly. As I have said, Percy FitzPercy
meant well.

It is possible that lesser men might have been deterred by the
unpromising results of that exploration. Descending gingerly through
the hole, which had been widened sufficiently to allow of the passage,
Percy switched his torch around the cavity he found himself in. Above
his head long rounded timbers, side by side and touching one another,
formed the roof, which was in good condition, save in the centre, where
the blue sky shone through the hole he had entered by. In one corner
stood a bedstead covered by a moth-eaten blanket, while all over the
floor crumbling sandbags and old clothes and equipment gave it the
appearance of a rag-and-bone shop. In one place the wall had fallen
in, a mound of chalk filled the corner, and from a score of vantage
points elderly rodents watched with increasing disfavour this
unexpected human invasion.

Up above in the trench the disfavour was repeated in that picturesque
phraseology for which Thomas is famous.

"Wot are you a-doing 'ere?" An incensed sergeant rounded a corner, and
gazed wrathfully at three privates, each armed with a spade and wearing
gas helmets. "Wot 'ave you got them 'elmets on for?" He approached
the fatal hole, and recoiled slightly. "Gaw-lumme! Wot's that smell?"

"Percy," answered a sepulchral voice. "Our little Perce."

"Wot yer mean--Percy? Wot's that 'ole?" A cloud of dust at that
moment rose through it, and he recoiled still farther. "Oo's down
there?"

"Percy," answered th