I was a bit angry, but we at last arrived at the spot where it should have been. They were perfectly right. There was no more lock-keeper's house! A 420, during our absence, had literally fallen right on the roof of the cellar.
"And the Territorials?" I asked.
"Chopped meat, lieutenant, chopped meat——"
A BOCHE WHO HAD ENOUGH, THE GREAT DUNE.
August, 1915.
It is night——
The sentinel is on duty at the extremity of the embankment of sandbags, which protects the pier from shells that are coming over fast.
It is almost midnight and the brave Territorial looks continually at the sea which splashes at his feet.
Suddenly the man hears an unusual sound in the water in front of him. He is all attention and cries out:
"Halt, there! Who goes?"
The night is clear and soon he sees two dripping arms stuck high in the air.