“I thought you were there, sir.”
“Don’t add lying to your other vices.”
The aide came grinning back. “I was fired at, but I dare not tell the old man.”
Rap! Rap! Rap! Rifles in front. Every one pricks up his ears. Is it the transient sniper or the first shot of a battle? The shots come from the farmhouse yonder. The 83rd Field Battery begin to fidget about their guns. The officer walks up and down and stares at the farmhouse. From either side two men pull out lines of string and give long, monotonous cries. They are the range-finders. A gunner on the limber is deep in a sixpenny magazine, absorbed, his chin on his hand.
“Our scouts are past the house,” says an officer.
“That’s all right,” says the major.
The battery limbers up and the whole force advances to the farmhouse. Off-saddle and a halt for luncheon.
Halloa! Here are new and sinister developments. A Tommy drives a smart buggy and pair out of the yard, looted for the use of the army. The farm is prize of war, for have they not fired at our troops? They could not help the firing, poor souls, but still this sniping must be discouraged. We are taking off our gloves at last over this war. But the details are not pretty.
A frightened girl runs out.
“Is it right that they kill fowls?” Alas! the question is hardly worth debating, for the fowls are dead. Erect and indignant, the girl drives in her three young turkeys. Men stare at her curiously, but she and her birds are not molested.