"Can we go over after?" persisted the questioner.
The Sergeant eyed the man with mock severity.
"Take my tip and hop it sharp," he replied darkly. "The men who remain in the trenches fifteen seconds after the order to advance will be sorry for themselves. If there are any slight casualties, Corporal," he added, addressing Billy Preston, "turn 'em out. It won't be healthy for them to stop in the dug-out."
"Wonder why?" asked several of the men after the Sergeant had departed to give similar instructions to the occupants of the adjoining "desirable villas".
The question remained unanswered. In silence Malcolm and his comrades took their rifles and filed out into the already-crowded communication-trench.
"Let's find Fortescue," said Malcolm, addressing Selwyn in a low voice that hardly sounded like his own. "He'll be in the next bay or the one beyond."
"Lead on, then," prompted his chum.
Slinging their rifles, the twain made their way along the narrow, winding trench, stumbling over the recumbent forms of resting men and squeezing past the fully-accoutred troops packed into the narrow place.
"He was here a minute ago," declared one, after several fruitless enquiries had been made of the denizens of the two adjoining sectors. "Guess he's in the firing-trench. They're fixing the storming-ladders."
The firing-trench was comparatively clear. A dozen men were sitting on the fire-step, listlessly fumbling with their equipment in a vain effort to kill time before the supreme moment arrived to go out into the open. Others were placing in Position the rough wooden ladders by which the stormers would be able to scale the breast-high parapet, each ladder being carefully tested lest an insecure structure should impede the operation of going over the top. A few non-coms., detailed to lay off the distance-tapes, were comparing notes as coolly as if they were arranging for the regimental sports.