"He is right in that—once you get rid of the parapet."
"He gets rid of the parapet with the point-blank fire of what he calls trench cannon—guns, three feet long, mounted so that they can be carried along a trench by four men; they are to fire ten- or twelve-pound high explosive shells from the front line smack against the opposite parapet."
"It sounds right, too; but so many things sound right that work all wrong. What are his other schemes?"
"One has to do with a thundering big six-hooked grapnel, with a wire cable attached, that is to be shot into the hostile lines from a big trench mortar and then winched back by steam. He expects his grapnel—give him power enough—to tear out trenches, machine-gun posts and battalion headquarters, and bring home all sorts of odds and ends of value for identification purposes. Can't you see the brigadier stepping out before brekker to take a look at the night's haul?"
"My hat! What did the War Office think of that?"
"An acting assistant something or other of the name of Smythers and the rank of major was inspired by it to ask Hiram whether he had ever served in France. Hiram put over a twenty-page narrative of his exploits with the battalion, with appendixes of maps and notes and extracts from brigade and battalion orders, and, so far as I know, the major has not yet recovered sufficiently to retaliate."
"Well, I hope Frank Sacobie has left the War Office alone."
"Frank writes nothing and says very little more than that. He seems to give all his attention to his kit; but I have a suspicion that he is a deep thinker. However that may be, his taste in dress is astonishingly good, and his deportment in society is in as good taste as his breeches."
"So he has a good time?"
"He is very gay when he comes up to town," answered Davenport.