"What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?" inquired Nigg, who was not very quick at grasping allusions. "He wouldna pit on the name himself," explained the philosopher. "What I mean is, there's a bullet for each one of us somewhere over there"--he jerked his head eastward--"in a Gairman pooch." "What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?" demanded Nigg triumphantly. "He doesna ken it!" "Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, "can ye no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'? When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it was _written_ there." "Then what the hell _did_ ye mean?" inquired the mystified disciple--not altogether unreasonably. Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten out the conversation. "He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing voice, "that the name was just stampit on the bullet. Like--like--like an identity disc!" he added brilliantly. The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands. "I dinna mean onything o' the kind," he roared. "What I intend tae imply is _this_, Sandy Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet in a Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! _That's_ what I meant. Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?" But it was the injured Buncle who replied--like a lightning-flash. "Never you fear, Sandy, boy!" he proclaimed to his perturbed ally. "That bullet has no' gotten your length yet. Maybe it never wull. There's mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name on it that finds its way intil the inside of some other man." He fixed Tosh with a relentless eye. "A bit ham, for instance!" It was a knock-out blow. "For ony sake," muttered the now demoralised Tosh, "drop the subject, and I'll gie ye a bit ham o' ma ain! There's just time tae cook it--" "What kin' o' a fire is this?" A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substantial presence inserted itself between the debaters and the wintry sunshine. Corporal Mucklewame was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, pointing an accusing finger at the fire, which, neglected in the ardour of discussion, was smoking furiously. "Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?" continued Mucklewame sarcastically. "Put oot the fire at once, or I'll need tae bring ye all before the Officer. It is a cauld dinner ye'll get, and ye'll deserve it!" IV In the fire-trench--or perhaps it would be more correct to call it the water-trench--life may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not often dull. For one thing, we are never idle.