r--on patrol. We'd just a-got to that there chalk 'ummock,
when we ran into some of 'em. 'E said to me--'Get back,' 'e said,
'your own way,' and then they put up a flare. I couldn't see 'im as I
was lying doggo in a 'ole, but I 'eard a revolver shot about ten yards
away. I looked round when the flare was out, but couldn't see him, nor
'ear him. So I thought 'e might 'ave got back."

"Pass the word along for Mr. Brinton." The officer went out of the sap
into the fire trench. "And get a move on with it." He stood for a few
moments, looking thoughtful. "I hope," he muttered to himself, "I hope
the old boy hasn't been scuppered."

But--the old boy _had_ been scuppered. A runner failed to discover him
in the trench; two strong patrols scoured the ground around the chalk
'ummock and drew blank. And so, in the fullness of time there appeared
in the Roll of Honour the name of Lieut. John Brinton, of the Royal
Loamshires, under the laconic heading of Missing, believed Prisoner of
War, which is the prologue of this tale of the coalfields of France.

The part of the line in which the Royal Loamshires found themselves at
the time of the unfortunate matter of John Brinton, M.C., was somewhere
south of La Bassee and somewhere north of Loos--closer identification
is undesirable. It is not a pleasant part of the line, though there
are many worse. The principal bugbears of one's existence are the
tunnelling companies, who without cessation practise their nefarious
trade, thereby causing alarm and despondency to all concerned.
Doubtless they mean well, but their habit of exploding large quantities
of ammonal at uncertain hours and places does not endear them to the
frenzied onlookers, who spend the next hour plucking boulders from
their eyes. In addition, there is the matter of sandbags. The
proximity of a mine shaft is invariably indicated by a young mountain
of these useful and hygienic articles, which tower and spread and
expand in every direction where they are most inconvenient. I admit
that, having placed half the interior of France in bags, the disposal
of the same on arriving in the light of day presents difficulties. I
admit that the fault lies entirely with the harassed and long-suffering
gentleman who boasts the proud title of "spoil's officer." I admit----
But I grow warm, in addition to digressing unpardonably. The trouble
is that I always do grow warm, and digress at the mention of sandbags.

In part