A subaltern floundered along the duck-boards and whispered to the platoon commander.
The charge was to be deferred pending further orders from headquarters. Either something had gone wrong with the final preparations of the mine, or else information had been received that necessitated the advance being postponed.
"Turn in, you fellows," said Sergeant Ferris. "No more going out to-night! Sorry for young Bartlett, but you know what the Colonel said."
"'Ow about our relief, sergeant?" enquired George Anderson. "Thought the Wheatshires were to be sent back last night?"
"Don't know as you've much cause to grumble," replied the N.C.O., "seeing that you haven't been twenty-four hours in the firing trench. Some of the boys have had six days of it."
"Seems like twenty-four months, sergeant," continued Ginger.
"P'r'aps; but you're a glutton for going out over No Man's Land," said Ferris. "You've no call to complain that it hasn't been exciting enough."
"A chap must do something to keep himself warm," groused the private, as he followed Setley and Alderhame to their now depleted dug-out.