rounds,' said another voice. It was Major de Blacquaire's, and
Polson had not heard it since the day of the Alma, a year and three
months ago.

'Halt, grand rounds, and give the countersign.'

'Bonnie Dundee.'

'Pass, grand rounds, and all's well.'

Grand rounds came tramping down the trench and the men about the fire
rose up and stood to attention.

'What is this?' asked De Blacquaire. 'Who's in charge here?'

'I am, sir,' Polson answered, saluting.

'What's the meaning of this blaze here? Can't you see that you're
drawing the enemy's fire? Report yourself to me at noon to-morrow.
Scatter that stuff, and trample it out.'

A foot was thrust into the embers, and they flared up suddenly. The
Major recognised his enemy, and looked from his eyes to the stripes upon
the left sleeve of his ragged overcoat.

'Is that your own coat?' he asked. 'Yes, sir.'

'Sergeant are you? I'll break you for this to-morrow.'

'That you, old chap?' drawled Volnay from his seat on the bread-box.
'Said you were dead. We've got no end of a find here. Whole pig. If
you'll let me know where to find you, I've bagged a ham, and I'll invite
myself to dine with you, and bring my own rations with me.'

'Thaanks,' said De Blacquaire. 'Don't trouble. I shall find it my duty
to report this scene of riot and disorder. Forward. March.'

Grand rounds went by, and the scattered fire faded.

'If you _can_ manage to hack a slice of that pork off, Sergeant!' said
Volnay, 'I'm beastly hungry.'

'Done, I think, to a turn,' said Polson. 'Who's got anything that will
cut?'

'I'm tould, sir,' said a voice out of the darkness, with a rich oily
brogue in it, 'that there's hours of difference between here and
Limerick. Won't it be Christmas morning in old Ireland, sir? And will
the bells be ringing?'

'Ye're out in your reckonin',' said another voice amid the shadows.
'It's exactly the other way. Your folks is going to bed in Limerick.
The sun has a knack of risin' in the east, my lad, and we're far east
of Ireland, or Aberdeen for that matter. I'm not mindin' the exact
particulars, but it's a matter of some two hours, I'm thinking. It's
deep midnight here, and an hour or so beyond it, and they'll be over
their punchbowls, yonner. That's so, sir, I'm believin'?'

'I don't know, upon my word,' said Volnay. 'You're out of my depth, my
lad. But it's a bit of a sin to talk about punch-bowls, isn't it, on a
night like this, when there isn't a hot drink