er is
full of Germans. They look like grey beetles in a trap, and are busy
with pick and shovel, apparently "improving" the crater and connecting
it with their own fire-trenches. They have no sentry out. _Dormitat
Homerus._

M'Snape worms his way back, and reports. Then, in accordance with an
oft-rehearsed scheme, the bombing party forms itself into an arc of a
circle at a radius of some twenty yards from the stunted bush. (Not
the least of the arts of bomb-throwing is to keep out of range of your
own bombs.) Every man's hand steals to his pocketed belt. Next moment
Simson flings the first bomb. It flies fairly into the middle of the
crater.

Half a dozen more go swirling after it. There is a shattering roar; a
cloud of smoke; a muffled rush, of feet; silence; some groans.
Almost simultaneously the German trenches are in an uproar. A dozen
star-shells leap to the sky; there is a hurried outburst of rifle
fire; a machine-gun begins to patter out a stuttering malediction.

Meanwhile our friends, who have exhibited no pedantic anxiety to
remain and behold the result of their labours, are lying upon their
stomachs in a convenient fold in the ground, waiting patiently until
such time as it shall be feasible to complete their homeward journey.

Half an hour later they do so, and roll one by one over the parapet
into the trench. Casualties are slight. Private Nimmo has a
bullet-wound in the calf of his leg, and Sergeant Carfrae, whom Nature
does not permit to lie as flat as the others, will require some
repairs to the pleats of his kilt.

"All present?" inquires Simson.

It is discovered that M'Snape has not returned. Anxious eyes peer over
the parapet. The moon is stronger now, but it is barely possible to
distinguish objects clearly for more than a few yards.

A star-shell bursts, and heads sink below the parapet. A German bullet
passes overhead, with a sound exactly like the crack of a whip.
Silence and comparative darkness return. The heads go up again.

"I'll give him five minutes more, and then go and look for him," says
Simson. "Hallo!"

A small bush, growing just outside the barbed wire, rises suddenly
to its feet; and, picking its way with incredible skill through the
nearest opening, runs at full speed for the parapet. Next moment it
tumbles over into the trench.

Willing hands extracted M'Snape from his arboreal envelope--he could
probably have got home quite well without it, but once a Boy Scout,
alwa