d
dishevelled, through an archway in the parapet, on their way to
dug-outs and repose. The last man in the procession is Bobby Little,
who has been in charge all night.

Our line here makes a sharp bend round the corner of an orchard, and
for security's sake a second trench has been cut behind, making, as
it were, the cross-bar of a capital A. The apex of the A is no health
resort. Brother Bosche, as already explained, is only fifty yards
away, and his trench-mortars make excellent practice with the parapet.
So the Orchard Trench is only occupied at night, and the alternative
route, which is well constructed and comparatively safe, is used by
all careful persons who desire to proceed from one arm of the A to the
other.

The present party are the night picket, thankfully relinquishing their
vigil round the apex.

Bobby Little remained to bid his company-commander good-morning at the
junction of the two trenches.

"Any casualties?" An invariable question at this spot.

"No, sir. We were lucky. There was a lot of sniping."

"It's a rum profession," mused Captain Blaikie, who was in a wakeful
mood.

"In what way, sir?" inquired the sleepy but respectful Bobby.

"Well"--Captain Blaikie began to fill his pipe--"who takes about
nine-tenths of the risk, and does practically all the hard work in the
Army? The private and the subaltern--you and your picket, in fact.
Now, here is the problem which has puzzled me ever since I joined
the Army, and I've had nineteen years' service. The farther away you
remove the British soldier from the risk of personal injury, the
higher you pay him. Out here, a private of the line gets about a
shilling a day. For that he digs, saps, marches, and fights like a
hero. The motor-transport driver gets six shillings a day, no danger,
and lives like a fighting cock. The Army Service Corps drive about in
motors, pinch our rations, and draw princely incomes. Staff Officers
are compensated for their comparative security by extra cash, and
first chop at the war medals. Now--why?"

"I dare say they would sooner be here, in the trenches, with us," was
Bobby's characteristic reply.

Blaikie lit his pipe--it was almost broad daylight now--and
considered.

"Yes," he agreed--"perhaps. Still, my son, I can't say I have ever
noticed Staff Officers crowding into the trenches (as they have a
perfect right to do) at four o'clock in the morning. And I can't say I
altogether blame them. In fact, if ever I