"Now, Tony," said some one, "you're on the staff. What's going to happen to-morrow?"
"A big show—will last two or three days, they say. But," he added, grinning, "you poor devils stuck away behind a hill won't see much of it. I suppose I shall be sent on my usual message—to tell you that you're doing no dam' good, and only wasting ammunition!"
But though he chaffed and joked his heart was heavy as he walked back an hour later. Somewhere out there in the mud was his own battery, which he worshipped as a god. And he was condemned to live away from it, to be absent when it dashed into action, when the breech-blocks rattled and the shells shrieked across the valleys.
He found the others still poring over the map. From the wallet on his saddle Tony pulled out a large travelling flask.
"I think that this is the time for the issue of my special emergency ration," he announced.
"What is it, Tony?" asked "the Maud."
"Best old liqueur brandy from our mess in England," he replied, pouring some into each of the four mugs.
Then he held up his own and added—
"Here's to the guns: may they be well served to-morrow."
Over the enamelled rim the General's eyes met Tony's for a moment, and he smiled; for he understood the sentiment.