Something "pinged" on the rounded surface of his steel helmet. A watchful sniper had seized his chance. Only by an inch had Sidney escaped death, for had the bullet struck the steel squarely instead of glancing off the convex surface the head-gear would not have withstood the impact.
"Are you young fools looking for trouble?" growled Sergeant Ferris, the N.C.O. who had routed them from the dug-out. "Keep under cover, and use a trench periscope if you want to enjoy the scenery."
"Thanks for the tip, sergeant," said George Anderson. "Sorry I can't offer yer a seegar, sergeant; I left me case on the grand pianner at 'ome; but 'ave a fag—a genuine Day's March Nearer 'Ome' brand."
The N.C.O. took the proffered cigarette and lit it slowly and deliberately.
"Are we on Wiring Party to-night, sergeant?" asked Ginger.
"Not as I know of," was the reply. "Why?"
"'Cause my pal 'ere is goin' to get 'old of that striped bed-cover"—jerking his thumb in the direction of the German flag—"an' I'm a-goin' with 'im; ain't I, Sid, ole sport?"
"Then you'll have to be sharp about it," remarked Sergeant Ferris. "The mine is to be sprung at 3.30 a.m. We're over the top again; this time there'll be no going back, if all goes well. We ought to advance four hundred yards and consolidate the position. So now you know. Go for the flag at your own risk, chums; but don't forget. Be back before three, or you'll stand a sure and certain chance of going to Kingdom Come with a couple o' hundred perishing Boches for company."
During the rest of the day nothing happened beyond the customary routine of trench life, combined with the monotonous occurrence of casualties.
"Are you still of the same mind, Bartlett?" enquired Alderhame, as darkness set in.