s, leaving an irregular trail of smoke.

"More garbage," said the ruddy-faced youth, as he rose to his feet.

* * * * *

"Shrapnel. What a funny place to shoot shrapnel!"

"They must have got the bead on that bunch of material the genie's
bringing in."

There was an explosion and a vicious whine of shrapnel bullets among the
trees. On the road a staff-car turned round hastily and speeded back.

Martin got up from where he was lying on the grass under a pine tree,
looking at the sky, and put his helmet on; as he did so there was
another sharp bang overhead and a little reddish-brown cloud that
suddenly spread and drifted away among the quiet tree-tops. He took off
his helmet and examined it quizzically.

"Tom, I've got a dent in the helmet."

Tom Randolph made a grab for the little piece of jagged iron that had
rebounded from the helmet and lay at his feet.

"God damn, it's hot," he cried, dropping it; "anyway, finding's
keepings." He put his foot on the shrapnel splinter.

"That ought to be mine, I swear, Tom."

"You've got the dent, Howe; what more do you want?"

"Damn hog."

Martin sat on the top step of the dugout, diving down whenever he heard
a shell-shriek loudening in the distance. Beside him was a tall man with
the crossed cannon of the artillery in his helmet, and a shrunken brown
face with crimson-veined cheeks and very long silky black moustaches.

"A dirty business," he said. "It's idiotic.... Name of a dog!"

Grabbing each other's arms, they tumbled down the steps together as a
shell passed overhead to burst in a tree down the road.

"Now look at that." The man held up his musette to Howe. "I've broken
the bottle of Bordeaux I had in my musette. It's idiotic."

"Been on permission?"

"Don't I look it?"

They sat at the top of the steps again; the man took out bits of wet
glass dripping red wine from his little bag, swearing all the while.

"I was bringing it to the little captain. He's a nice little old chap,
the little captain, and he loves good wine."

"Bordeaux?"

"Can't you smell it? It's Medoc, 1900, from my own vines.... Look, taste
it, there's still a little." He held up the neck of the bottle and
Martin took a sip.

The artilleryman drank the rest of it, twisted his long moustaches and
heaved a deep sigh.

"Go there, my poor good old wine." He threw the remnants of the bottle
into the underbrush. Shrapnel burst a little down the road. "Oh,