s out of the other.

Goliath, six foot three of bone and muscle, is a magnificent animal.
The gods forgot little of their old-time cunning in the making of him,
in the forging of his shoulders, massive as a bull's withers, in the
shaping of his limbs, sturdy as pillars of granite and supple as
willows, in the setting of his well-poised head, his heavy jaw, (p. 055)
and muscled neck. But the gods seem to have grown weary of a momentous
masterpiece when they came to the man's eyes, and Goliath wears glasses.
For all that he is a good marksman and, strange to say, he delights in
the trivialities of verse, and carries an earmarked Tennyson about
with him.

Pryor is a pessimist, an artist, a poet, a writer of stories; he
drifted into our little world on the march and is with us still. He
did not like his previous section and applied for a transfer into
ours. He gloats over sunsets, colours, unconventional doings, hopes
that he will never marry a girl with thick ankles, and is certain that
he will never live to see the end of the War. Pryor, Teak, Kore, and
Stoner have never used a razor; they are as beardless as babes.

We were coming near the trenches. In front, the two lines of men
stretched on as far as the eye could see; we were near the rear and
singing _Macnamara's Band_, a favourite song with our regiment.
Suddenly a halt was called. A heap of stones bounded the roadway, and
we sat down, laying our rifles on the fine gravel.

The crash came from the distance, probably five hundred yards in front,
and it sounded like a waggon-load of rubble being emptied on a (p. 056)
landing and clattering down a flight of stairs.

"What's that?" asked Stoner, flicking the ash from the tip of his
cigarette with the little finger.

"Some transport has broken down."

"Perhaps it's a shell," I ventured, not believing what I said.

"Oh! your grandmother."

Whistling over our head it came with a swish similar to that made by a
wet sheet shaken in the wind, and burst in the field on the other side
of the road. A ball of white smoke poised for a moment in mid-air,
curled slowly upwards, and gradually faded away. I looked at my mates.
Stoner was deadly pale; it seemed as if all the blood had rushed away
from his face. Teak's mouth was a little open, his cigarette, sticking
to his upper lip, hung down quivering, and the ash was falling on his
tunic; a smile almost of contempt played on Pryor's face, and Goliath
yawned. At the