"It is well you told us," I said sweetly, "otherwise I could never have believed it."
But the Major heeded me not. He was staring over my shoulder.
"Good shot, by Jove!" he yelled. "A perfect beauty! Holed out in one!"
I turned to see what had caused his sudden joy. But where was my little 'ouse? Had it suddenly turned into that nasty cloud of dust? Even as I looked my water-bucket reached the ground again.
"Awfully sorry, old man," said the Major, with a ghastly, pretence of sympathy. "You see it was in our way."
I brushed aside his proffered hand (rather good that, Jerry. Let's have it again. I say I brushed aside his proffered hand), and strode back dismally to what had once been my home from home.
Now I live in a little dug-out beneath the ground, chickenless and mangel-wurzelless, awaiting with resignation the day when the Sappers shall find that I am in their way and blow me up.
Another little game of the gunners is called "Artillery Duels."
In the good old days, when a man wanted a scrap with his neighbour, he put a double charge of powder into his blunderbuss, crammed in on top of it two horse-shoes, his latch-key, an old watch-chain, and a magnet, and then started on the trail. It was very effective, but of course some busy-body "improved" on it. Nowadays our gunners ring up the enemy's artillery.
"Hallo! Is that you, strafe you? What about an artillery duel, eh?"