mpany commander came in sight, he was standing upon it, in
an attitude strongly reminiscent of the heavy tragedian--out of a
"shop"--holding forth in his favourite Bodega.

"What the blazes are you doing there?" howled his infuriated Captain.
"Why aren't you in number eight sap, instead of doing a dumb-crambo
show?"

"The raid is over, sir," answered Percy, majestically. "The raider
is--ah--below."

"What the----" began the frenzied senior. And then he paused. "Great
Scott! What's that infernal shindy?"

From below their feet there rose a perfect orgy of breaking china and
rattling tins, with ever and anon a loud musical note as of a bucket
being belaboured with a stick. Grunts and guttural curses, followed by
strange hollow noises indicative of pain, for a while drowned all
attempts at conversation. Finally there was a grand finale of crashing
cups and tinkling tins, the sound of a heavy blow, a grunt of muffled
agony and--silence. The lights still hissed up into the night, stray
rifles still cracked at intervals, but otherwise--silence.

At last Percy spoke. "Do you know, dear old boy, I believe there are
two of them down there; 'pon my soul, I do--what?" He spoke with
deliberation, as befits an inventor. "It seemed to me that the one who
swore and the one who grunted were different people."

The tooth-sucker opined likewise; also Tomkins, who had arrived on the
scene.

"What is this dam foolishness?" said the Captain irritably. "Am I to
understand there are two Germans inside there, under the trench?"

"One for certain; two possibly--or even three, dear old boy." At the
thought of three, he of the teeth played a tune in his excitement.

"Then for heaven's sake get the top off and let's get them out!"

It was then that the last cruel blow of Fate was dealt to the hapless
Herbert. For after a brief period of feverish pulling, during which
the company commander broke his nails and Percy fell over backwards,
the trap-door remained _in statu quo_.

"What the devil's the matter with the beastly thing?" muttered the
Captain, savagely. "It's your fool-trick, FitzPercy! Can't you open
it?"

"My dear old boy," remarked the proud inventor vaguely, "it generally
opens--'pon my soul, it does." He turned his torch on to the reluctant
trench-board and examined it through his eyeglass. "By Jove! that's
it, dear old son, there's the trouble. The dud shell has slipped
forward and got wedged in the raft