"He has," answered the Sapper, preparing to follow his footsteps. "And
the men would do anything for him."

"What price that rum jar I sent in a bird about?"

"That was the last explosion you heard," laughed the Sapper. "I wasn't
leaving anything to chance. I am going to go and drink beer--iced beer,
in long glasses. _Toujours a toi_."

He was gone, leaving the Adjutant staring. A few moments later he
clambered out of the trench, and struck out for the crumbling church that
betokened a road and the near presence of his bicycle.

* * * * * *

A day of peace--yes, as things go, a day of perfect peace. Away down
South things were moving; this was stagnation. And yet--well, it was at
dinner that night . . .

"For the fourteenth night in succession I rise to a point of order." The
Doctor was speaking. "Why is the lady with the butterfly on her back
pushed away into one corner, and that horrible woman with the green wig
accorded the place of honour?"

I would hurriedly state that the Doctor's remarks were anent two pictures
which are, I believe, occasionally to be found in officers' messes in the
B.E.F.--pictures of a Parisian flavour as befits the Entente--pictures
which--at any rate they are well known to many, and I will not specify
further.

"Yes, the lady with the gween wig is dweadful." The boy sipped his port.

"Infant, I'm shocked at you. The depravity of these children
nowadays . . ."

An orderly came into the room with an envelope, which he handed to the
Captain.

The C.O. spread out the flimsy paper and frowned slightly as he read the
message.

"T.M. Emp. No. 7, completely wrecked by a direct hit 9.30 a.m. this
morning, A.A.A. Please inspect and report, A.A.A., C.R.E., 140th
Division."

"Delayed as usual," grunted the Scotchman. "I was there just after it
happened, and reported it to the O.C. Trench Mortars. Did you not hear,
sir, for it's useless repairing it? That position is too well known."

"Were there any casualties?" The Sapper Captain's voice was quiet.

"Aye. The poor lad that was crooning over his gun when I saw him this
morning, like a cat over her undrowned kitten, just disappeared."

"What d'you mean, Mac?"

"It was one of the big ones, and it came right through the wire on top of
him." The gruff voice was soft. "Poor bairn!"

[1] _Special Note to Lovers of Etymology_.

_Il n'y en a plus_. There is no more. French phras