upport trench, where, spitefully shelled with shrapnel, he set about
the preparation of a belated breakfast for his section, two of whom had
retired to possies to sleep, and the other to the beach for water.

CHAPTER XIV

A WEARY DAY

Mac sat in the dust, his back against a bank, with his rifle leaning
slantwise across him, and his equipment hanging awkwardly. Beside him
sat Smoky, and both were melancholy. The sun beat strong in upon them,
and the dust clung thickly to their perspiring bodies. The shady side
of the wide communication trench was exposed to shrapnel, which the
Turks had kept up more or less continually since the failure of their
night attack. Against the opposite bank lay a body, half-covered by a
blanket, and the padre was quietly removing the dead man's
identification disc and the contents of his pockets. His two cobbers
had gone on to the top to dig him a grave, and had both been wounded by
shrapnel.

Mac and Smoky were sad. It was not the sorrow of grief, nor yet the
thoughts that a speedy end might any time be theirs; but rather they
were touched partly by the sight of the good old padre silently
removing the soiled, time-worn articles from his pockets, small things
which would be so greatly valued and revered by his people away in a
sunny Wairarapa homestead, and partly the vision of a fine strapping,
cheery fellow passing so rapidly from laughter to cold silence.

Thoughts such as these, deep and sincere as they were, cast but a
passing shadow over their careless, happy natures. Friends of
bush-whacking and shepherding days, camp mates of the past, and casual
cobbers in Cairene escapades day after day went West; and always there
came the momentary sadness, and, maybe, the remark, "Poor old Bill.
They hooked him this morning. He was a good old sport." That was his
requiem and, save for a few stray thoughts in the silent watches of the
night, old Bill went unremembered.

The Turkish dead lay thick between the lines; but there was no knowing
whether they had finally abandoned the attack. Their shelling
continued, and the rifle fire indicated a nervous temperament.
Consequently the squadron still remained in reserve as near as possible
to the firing line. Mac could see through a sap which ran to the edge
of the precipice the beach and the cool, wonderfully cool-looking
water. The few lucky beggars were splashing there, for practically
every man was up in the firing-line. Ther