"Hum! we'll alter that to-morrow—it's certainly not palatial," said Dennis. "I suppose there's none of my clobber come up?"
"Oh yes, it's all here; I saw to that," said young Wetherby, blushing like a girl, as he pointed to a haversack and a brown valise which contained his friend's campaigning kit.
"What a good little chap you are!" exclaimed Dennis.
"Not at all. I fagged for you at Harrow, and somehow I had the idea you'd turn up," and young Wetherby blushed again.
He was a pretty pink-faced boy, who wrote extremely sweet poetry in his odd moments.
"Well, I'm going to have a shave," said Dennis; "and I say, Wetherby, you might grope in the kit-bag and put a refill in that spare torch of mine. I've got an idea it may be useful to-night. Oh, hang this rain!"
The steady drizzle which had set in as the light faded had turned to a heavy, pitiless downpour.
"What a night!" murmured Harry Hawke, as he lay on his stomach in two inches of water some twenty yards in front of the trench with his pal, Tiddler, beside him. "An' me on the peg to-morrer!"
"Bet you there won't be no show," said Tiddler.
"Don't you make too sure of that, Cocky. I'll put a shilling on Mr. Dashwood both ways, and he's got a notion that something's up."