terwards."

"We miscalculated the enemy's strength, of course," said Mervin.

"That's it," Pryor cut in. "But the trenches we lost were of no
strategic importance."

"They never are," said Kore. "I suppose that's why we lose thousands
to take 'em, and the enemy lose as many to regain them."

"Soup, gentlemen," Stoner interrupted, bringing a steaming tureen to
the table. "Help yourselves."

"Mulligatawny?" said Pryor sipping the stuff which he had emptied into
his mess-tin, "I don't like this."

[Illustration: Menu of the dug-out banquet] (p. 123)

"Wot," muttered Bill, "wot's wrong with it?" (p. 124)

"As soup its above reproach, but the name," said Pryor. "It's beastly."

"Wot's wrong with it?"

"Everything," said the artistic youth, "and besides I was fed as a
child on mulligatawny, fed on it until I grew up and revolted. To meet
it again here in a dug-out. Oh! ye gods!"

"I'll take it," I said, for I had already finished mine.

"Will you?" exclaimed Pryor, employing his spoon with Gargantuan zeal.
"It's not quite etiquette."

As he spoke a bullet whistled through the door and struck a tin of
condensed milk which hung by a string from the rafter. The bullet went
right through and the milk oozed out and fell on the table.

"Waiter," said Goliath in a sharp voice, fixing one eye on the cook,
and another on the falling milk.

"Sir," answered Stoner, raising his head from his mess-tin.

"What beastly stuff is this trickling down? You shouldn't allow this
you know."

"I'm sorry," said Stoner, "you'd better lick it up."

"'Ad 'e," cried Bill. "Wot will we do for tea?" The Cockney held (p. 125)
a spare mess-tin under the milk and caught it as it fell. This was
considered very unseemly behaviour for a gentleman, and we suggested
that he should go and feed in the servants' kitchen.

A stew, made of beef, carrots, and potatoes came next, and this in
turn was followed by an omelette. Then followed a small portion of
beef to each man, we called this chicken in our glorious game of
make-believe. Kore asserted that he had caught the chicken singing
_The Watch on the Rhine_ on the top of a neighbouring chateau and took
it as lawful booty of war.

"Chicken, my big toe!" muttered Bill, using his clasp-knife for a
tooth-pick. "It's as tough as a rifle sling. Yer must have got hold of
the bloomin' weathercock."

The confiture was Stoner's greatest feat. The sweet w