“But why not smash up his old dummy, sir? Might put the wind up the fellow working it.”
“No,” I explained. “Look at the paper again. (I had drawn it out for him, as I have on the previous page.) Thomas shot at those R.E.’s this morning, don’t you see? He was here (B), and they’re at D. Now they’re trying to find you, or the man who shot their pal; and you can bet anything you like they’ve got a man watching either at C or right away on the left to spot you if you fire at the dummy. No. Lie doggo, and see if you can spot that man on the flank. He’s probably got a periscope.”
“Can’t see him, sir,” at length.
“No. Never mind; he’s probably far too well concealed. Always remember the Boche is as clever as you, and sometimes cleverer.”
“Ah, but he wants me to shoot, sir, and I won’t,” came the cheery answer. “What about smashing up his old dummy?” I reminded him. His face fell. He had forgotten his old un-sniper-like self already. “Never mind,” said I. “Now when Thomas and Everton come up here, mind you tell them all about the dummy; and tell Thomas from me that the Boche doesn’t spend his time dummy-wagging for nothing. Probably it was an R.E. sergeant.”
II
“Swis-s-sh—báng. Swis-s-sh—báng.”
“That settles it,” said I, as I scrambled hastily down into the trench, preceded by the sniper I had with me that day as orderly. I more or less pushed him along for ten yards—then halted; we faced each other both very much out of breath and “blowy.” The whole place was reeking with the smell of powder, and the air full of sand-bag fluff.
“That settles it,” I repeated: “I always thought that was a rotten post; and I object to being whizz-banged. ‘A sniper’s job is to see and not be seen.’ Isn’t that right, Morris?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Morris, adding with a sad lack of humour “They must have seen us, sir!”