ble-shuffle on a greasy trench
plank and wondered vaguely why the rain should _always_ come from the
north-east. Presently a figure squelched up to him and halted.

"'Tis Sergeant O'Hagan, Sorr," it whispered hoarsely.

"Well, Sergeant, what is it?"

"'Tis the sintry at Fosse 19, Sorr. He's reported quare noises in that
inimy sap beyant."

"Been dreaming, I expect," muttered the Captain, and then added briskly,
"I think I'll have a listen myself. Go ahead, Sergeant."

They made their way slowly along the uneven trench, past silent figures
reclining in various attitudes of ease or discomfort; past emplacements
where machine-guns and trench-mortars were innocently sleeping (with one
eye always open) or being overhauled by an expert night-nurse.
Eventually, by that instinct common to trench-dwellers and professional
poachers, they found themselves at Fosse 19, and with superlative
caution crept up to the sentry.

"What's wrong?" whispered the Captain tersely.

"Well, Sir," replied Private Blobbs, "I was standin' 'ere on listenin'
duty, when I 'ears somethink movin' very contagious, so I pops up me
'ead to 'ave a peep. Didn't see nothink, but I 'ears a pecooliar noise
like----There y'are, Sir."

He broke off abruptly, and, borne upon the wind, came a series of
guttural murmurs.

"Now wouldn't ut give one a quare shtart, that?" remarked Sergeant
O'Hagan, _sotto voce_.

"Um-m," said the Captain thoughtfully. "I think Mr. Hamilton had better
have a look round."

A few minutes later, having invaded the privacy of "Whortleberry Villa,"
he was relentlessly prodding a bundle of waterproofs.

"Come on, young fella!" he exclaimed when the bundle showed signs of
life; "bombin' party forward. Brother Bosch is playin' the piccolo just
outside Fosse 19."

The Subaltern scrambled out of his wraps and, with incredible dispatch,
gathered together the Davids of his section. "All guaranteed," so he
boasted, "to hit the cocoanut every time."

Accoutred with their infernal machines, the little band of hope passed
along the trench as silently as a party of Fenimore Cooper's
North-American Indians.

"Yes, they're at home right enough," muttered the Subaltern, after a
cramped interval of breathless attention, "and fairly asking for it."

He proceeded to make his dispositions with the skill and assurance of an
old hand. He was nearly nineteen.

"We're going to stalk 'em this time," he whispered to the men; "you keep
on crawl