ad a bullet through his cap and
another in the region of the waistband. Then they tumbled into the
trench like rabbits. Carfrae and I crawled after them."

At this moment the doorway of the dugout is darkened by a massive
figure, and Major Kemp's colour-sergeant announces--

"There's a parrty of Gairmans gotten oot o' their trenches, sirr. Will
we open fire?"

"Go and have a look at 'em, like a good chap, Wagger," says the Major.
"I want to finish this letter."

Wagstaffe and Bobby Little make their way along the trench until they
come to a low opening marked MAXIM VILLA. They crawl inside, and find
themselves in a semicircular recess, chiefly occupied by an earthen
platform, upon which a machine-gun is mounted. The recess is roofed
over, heavily protected with sandbags, and lined with iron plates;
for a machine-gun emplacement is the object of frequent and pressing
attention from high-explosive shells. There are loopholes to right
and left, but not in front. These deadly weapons prefer diagonal or
enfilade fire. It is not worth while to fire them frontally.

Wagstaffe draws back a strip of sacking which covers one loophole,
and peers out. There, a hundred and fifty yards away, across a sunlit
field, he beholds some twenty grey figures, engaged in the most
pastoral of pursuits, in front of the German trenches.

"They are cutting the grass," he says. "Let 'em, by all means! If they
don't, we must. We don't want their bomb-throwers crawling over here
through a hay-field. Let us encourage them by every means in our
power. It might almost be worth our while to send them a message. Walk
along the trench, Bobby, and see that no excitable person looses off
at them."

Bobby obeys; and peace still broods over the sleepy trench. The only
sound which breaks the summer stillness is the everlasting crack,
crack! of the snipers' rifles. On an off-day like this the sniper is
a very necessary person. He serves to remind us that we are at war.
Concealed in his own particular eyrie, with his eyes for ever laid
along his telescopic sight, he keeps ceaseless vigil over the ragged
outline of the enemy's trenches. Wherever a head, or anything
resembling a head, shows itself, he fires. Were it not for his
enthusiasm, both sides would be sitting in their shirt-sleeves upon
their respective parapets, regarding one another with frank curiosity;
and that would never do. So the day wears on.

Suddenly, from far in our rear, comes a boom,