lesey which runs to thirty-three syllables or so--and
extends from one end of the facade to the other. A small placard
announces that Hawkers, Organs, and Street-cries are prohibited.

"This is my shanty," explains a machine-gun officer standing by. "It
was built by a Welsh Fusilier, who has since moved on. He was here all
winter, and made everything himself, including the washhand-stand.
Some carpenter--what? of course I am not here continuously. We have
six days in the trenches and six out; so I take turns with a man in
the Midland Mudcrushers, who take turns with us. Come in and have some
tea."

It is only ten o'clock in the morning, but tea--strong and sweet, with
condensed milk--is instantly forthcoming. Refreshed by this, and a
slice of cake, we proceed upon our excursion.

The trench is full of men, mostly asleep; for the night cometh, when
no man may sleep. They lie in low-roofed rectangular caves, like the
interior of great cucumber-frames, lined with planks and supported by
props. The cave is really a homogeneous affair, for it is constructed
in the R.E. workshops and then brought bodily to the trenches and
fitted into its appointed excavation. Each cave holds three men. They
lie side by side, like three dogs in a triple kennel, with their heads
outward and easily accessible to the individual who performs the
functions of "knocker-up."

Others are cooking, others are cleaning their rifles. The proceedings
are superintended by a contemplative tabby cat, coiled up in a niche,
like a feline flower in a crannied wall.

"She used ter sit on top of the parapet," explains a friendly
lance-corporal; "but became a casualty, owin' to a sniper mistakin'
'er for a Guardsman's bearskin. Show the officer your back,
Christabel!"

We inspect the healed scar, and pass on. Next moment we round a
traverse--and walk straight into the arms of Privates Ogg and Hogg!

No need now to remain with the distinguished party from Headquarters.
For the next half-mile of trench you will find yourselves among
friends. "K(1)" and Brother Bosche are face to face at last, and here
you behold our own particular band of warriors taking their first
spell in the trenches.

Let us open the door of this spacious dug-out--the image of an
up-river bungalow, decorated with window-boxes and labelled Potsdam
View--and join the party of four which sits round the table.

"How did your fellows get on last night, Wagstaffe?" inquires Major
Kemp.