ng on the chatty piece of information
that "there will be no party for Windsor to-morrow." This habit of
calling things and places as they most emphatically are not is but a
concession, of course, to the habits of the infamous Hun, who rightly
or wrongly is supposed to overhear everything one says within a mile
of the line.

Thinking in the vernacular proper to people who keep the little
knowledge they have to themselves, the Brigade Major grasped the hated
telephone in the left hand and prepared to say a few words (also in
the vernacular) to his fellow Staff Officer a mile away.

"Hullo!" Br-rr--Crick-crick. "Hullo, Signals! Give me S-Salmon."

"Salmon? You're through, Sir," boomed a voice apparently within a foot
of his ear.

"OO!" An earsplitting crack was followed by a mosquito-like voice
singing in the wilderness.

"Hullo!"

"Hullo!"

"This is Pike."

"This is Possum. H-hullo, Pike!"

"Hullo, Possum!"

"I say, look here, the General w-wants to know" (here he paused to
throw a dark hidden meaning into the word) "what time--_it_--is."

"What time it is?"

"Yes, what time _it_ is! _It_. Yes, what time it is"--repeated
_fortissimo ad lib_.

"Eleven thirty-five."

"Eleven thirty-five? Why, it's on now. I don't hear anything on the
Front?"

"No, you wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's all quiet."

"But you said s-something was on?"

"No, I didn't. You asked me what time it was and I told you."

Swallowing hard several times, Possum girded up his loins, so to
speak, gripped the telephone firmly in the right hand this time, and
jumped off again. His "Hullo" sent a thrill through even the Bosch
listening apparatus in the next sector.

"Hullo! L-look here, Pike, we--want--to--know--what time _it_ is."

"Eleven thir--"

"No, no, _it_--_it_"

"What?"

"It! You _know_ what I mean. Damit, what can I call it? Oh--er,
_sports_; what time is your _high jump_?" he added, nodding and
winking knowingly. "Well, what time's the circus? When do you start
for Berlin?"

"I say, Possum, are you all right, old chap?" said a voice full of
concern.

A crop of full-bodied beads appeared on the Brigade Major's brow.
His right hand was paralysed by the unceasing grip of the receiver.
There was a strained look in his eyes as of a man watching for the
ration-party.

"S-something," he said, calmly and surely mastering his
fate--"s-something is happening to-night."

"You're a cheery sort of bloke, aren't