UNDERGROUND GAME.
It was four o'clock on a wet wintry morning.
Captain Blank executed an inadvertent double-shuffle on a greasy trench plank and wondered vaguely why the rain should always come from the north-east. Presently a figure squelched up to him and halted.
"'Tis Sergeant O'Hagan, Sorr," it whispered hoarsely.
"Well, Sergeant, what is it?"
"'Tis the sintry at Fosse 19, Sorr. He's reported quare noises in that inimy sap beyant."
"Been dreaming, I expect," muttered the Captain, and then added briskly, "I think I'll have a listen myself. Go ahead, Sergeant."
They made their way slowly along the uneven trench, past silent figures reclining in various attitudes of ease or discomfort; past emplacements where machine-guns and trench-mortars were innocently sleeping (with one eye always open) or being overhauled by an expert night-nurse. Eventually, by that instinct common to trench-dwellers and professional poachers, they found themselves at Fosse 19, and with superlative caution crept up to the sentry.
"What's wrong?" whispered the Captain tersely.
"Well, Sir," replied Private Blobbs, "I was standin' 'ere on listenin' duty, when I 'ears somethink movin' very contagious, so I pops up me 'ead to 'ave a peep. Didn't see nothink, but I 'ears a pecooliar noise like——There y'are, Sir."
He broke off abruptly, and, borne upon the wind, came a series of guttural murmurs.
"Now wouldn't ut give one a quare shtart, that?" remarked Sergeant O'Hagan, sotto voce.
"Um-m," said the Captain thoughtfully. "I think Mr. Hamilton had better have a look round."
A few minutes later, having invaded the privacy of "Whortleberry Villa," he was relentlessly prodding a bundle of waterproofs.
"Come on, young fella!" he exclaimed when the bundle showed signs of life; "bombin' party forward. Brother Bosch is playin' the piccolo just outside Fosse 19."
The Subaltern scrambled out of his wraps and, with incredible dispatch, gathered together the Davids of his section. "All guaranteed," so he boasted, "to hit the cocoanut every time."
Accoutred with their infernal machines, the little band of hope passed along the trench as silently as a party of Fenimore Cooper's North-American Indians.
"Yes, they're at home right enough," muttered the Subaltern, after a cramped interval of breathless attention, "and fairly asking for it."
He proceeded to make his dispositions with the skill and assurance of an old hand. He was nearly nineteen.
"We're going to stalk 'em this time," he whispered to the men; "you keep on crawling till I say 'Go!' Then drop it on them quick."
He slid over the parapet like an eel and disappeared into the night. In a few moments the sentry was alone in the trench. His state of mind was, from sheer excitement, almost insupportable.
After what seemed interminable hours, at last he heard the clear word of command, the clatter of things falling and the immediate roar of the explosions. In reply, rifle fire began to break out along the German first trenches, whilst, overhead, a star-shell burst into blossom; then the stutter of machine-guns joined in the chorus. The sentry flattened himself like a poultice against the side of the trench. Fosse 19 had, among other disadvantages, the reputation of being open to enfilading by machine-gun fire.
The disturbance died away as quickly as it had arisen, but there were no indications that the bombing party was returning. Private Blobbs danced with futile impatience and bent his head to the approved angle of the expert listener. Suddenly a heavy body took him in the nape of the neck.
"Ow!" he exclaimed, floundering in mud and water with an unseen and inconceivable presence. He clutched the nightmare of an ear and kicked violently.
"Look aht, Percy," enjoined a hollow but reassuring voice, "'ere comes another!"
Private Blobbs removed himself with remarkable agility.....
"Good!" exclaimed the Subaltern when he finally slid into the trench. "This expedition hasn't quite come up to expectations, but it's the nicest family of pigs I've seen for some time."
He flashed an electric torch on to the disordered carcasses.
"Corporal Leary," he added incisively, "will you kindly see that the officers' mess is served with fresh pork?"
He snapped out the torch and, complete master of the situation, started on the return journey to "Whortleberry Villa."