"And what was it," inquired Private Cosh with heat, "that happened last week?"
"Why," replied Mr. Johnson, who had been compounding this jest for some days, and now saw his opportunity to deliver it with effect at short range, "your trenches got raided last Wednesday, when you was in' em. By the Brandyburgers, I think it was."
The entire symposium stared at the jester with undisguised amazement.
"Our—trenches," proclaimed Private Tosh with forced calm, "were never raided by no—Brandyburrrgerrs! Was they, Jimmie?"
Mr. Cosh corroborated, with three adjectives which Mr. Tosh had not thought of.
Spike Johnson merely smiled, with the easy assurance of a man who has the ace up his sleeve.
"Oh yes, they was!" he reiterated.
"They werre not!" shouted half a dozen voices.
The next stage of the discussion requires no description. It terminated, at the urgent request of Madame from behind the bar, and with the assistance of the Military Police, in the street outside.
"And now, Spike Johnson," inquired Private Cosh, breathing heavily but much refreshed, "can you tell me what way Gairmans could get intil the trenches of a guid Scots regiment withoot bein' seen?"