It was four o'clock on a wet wintry morning.
Captain Blank executed an inadvertent double-shuffle on a greasy trench plank and wondered vaguely why the rain should always come from the north-east. Presently a figure squelched up to him and halted.
"'Tis Sergeant O'Hagan, Sorr," it whispered hoarsely.
"Well, Sergeant, what is it?"
"'Tis the sintry at Fosse 19, Sorr. He's reported quare noises in that inimy sap beyant."
"Been dreaming, I expect," muttered the Captain, and then added briskly, "I think I'll have a listen myself. Go ahead, Sergeant."
They made their way slowly along the uneven trench, past silent figures reclining in various attitudes of ease or discomfort; past emplacements where machine-guns and trench-mortars were innocently sleeping (with one eye always open) or being overhauled by an expert night-nurse. Eventually, by that instinct common to trench-dwellers and professional poachers, they found themselves at Fosse 19, and with superlative caution crept up to the sentry.
"What's wrong?" whispered the Captain tersely.
"Well, Sir," replied Private Blobbs, "I was standin' 'ere on listenin' duty, when I 'ears somethink movin' very contagious, so I pops up me 'ead to 'ave a peep. Didn't see nothink, but I 'ears a pecooliar noise like——There y'are, Sir."
He broke off abruptly, and, borne upon the wind, came a series of guttural murmurs.