Then I was aware of a sort of tarpaulin cupboard under the breastwork, of creeping trails of wire on the ground, and of a couple of sappers.
The corporal turned down his page of 'Harmsworth's Magazine,' laid it on the parapet, and dived under the tarpaulin.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling! buzzed the telephone bell.
The gaunt up-towering mountains, the long, smooth, deadly guns—and the telephone bell!
The mountains and the guns went out, and there floated in that roaring office of the 'Daily Mail' instead, and the warm, rustling vestibule of the playhouse on a December night. This is the way we make war now; only for the instant it was half joke and half home-sickness. Where were we? What were we doing?
"Right-hand Gun Hill fired, sir," came the even voice of the bluejacket. "At the balloon."
"Captain wants to speak to you, sir," came the voice of the sapper from under the tarpaulin.
Whistle and rattle and pop went the shell in the valley below.
"Give him a round both guns together," said the captain to the telephone.