'Fresh!' said the other disgustedly. 'Not much. They've been digging trenches all day about four miles back. It's too sickening. Pity we don't do like the Boches—conscript all the able-bodied civilians and make 'em do all this trench-digging in rear. Then we might be fresh for the firing line.'
'Tut, tut—mustn't talk about conscripting 'em,' said Duffy's officer reprovingly. 'One volunteer, y'know—worth ten pressed men.'
'Yes,' said the other, 'but when there isn't enough of the "one volunteer" it's about time to collar the ten pressed.'
Two or three flares went up almost simultaneously from the enemy's line, the crackle of fire rose to a brisk fusillade, and through it ran the sharp 'rat-at-at-at' of a machine-gun. The rising sound of the reports told plainly of the swinging muzzle, and officers and men dropped flat in the mud and waited till the sweeping bullets had passed over their heads. Men may work on and 'chance it' against rifle fire alone, but the sweep of a machine-gun is beyond chance, and very near to the certainty of sudden death to all in the circle of its swing.
The officers passed on and the new men began to dig. Sapper Duffy also resumed work, and as he did so he noticed there was something familiar about the bulky shape of the new digger next to him.
'What lot are you?' asked the new man, heaving out the first spadeful rapidly and dexterously.
'We're 'A' Section, Southland Company,' said Duffy, 'an' I say—ain't you Beefy Wilson?'
'That's me,' said the other without checking his spade. 'And blow me! you must be Duffy—Jem Duffy.'
'That's right,' said Duffy. 'But I didn't know you'd joined, Beefy.'
'Just a week or two after you,' said Beefy.