They occurred about 2 a.m.—the worries of the men over the road. Denver had moved to his other hole, courteously known as the reserve trenches, and there seated in his dug-out he discussed prospects generally with the Major. There were rumours that the division was moving from Ypres, and not returning there—a thought which would kindle hope in the most pessimistic.
"Don't you believe it," answered the Major gloomily. "Those rumours are an absolute frost."
"Cheer up! cully, we'll soon be dead." Denver laughed. "Have some rum."
He poured some out into a mug and passed the water. "Quiet to-night—isn't it? I was reading to-day that the Italians——"
"You aren't going to quote any war expert at me, are you?"
"Well—er—I was: why not?"
"Because I have a blood-feud with war experts. I loathe and detest the breed. Before I came out here their reiterated statement made monthly that we should be on the Rhine by Tuesday fortnight was a real comfort. We always got to Tuesday fortnight—but we've never actually paddled in the bally river."
"To err is human; to get paid for it is divine," murmured Jim.
"Bah!" the Major filled his pipe aggressively. "What about the steam-roller, what about the Germans being reduced to incurable epileptics in the third line trenches—what about that drivelling ass who said the possession of heavy guns was a disadvantage to an army owing to their immobility?"
"Have some more rum, sir?" remarked Jim soothingly.