'Come on, 'Enery, give us 'is dyin' speech,' some one urged, and 'Enery proceeded to recite an impromptu 'Dyin' Speech of the Dachshund-stealer,' as he called it, in the most approved fashion of the East End drama, with all the accompaniments of rolling eyes, breast-clutchings, and gasping pauses. 'Now then, where's the orchestra?' he demanded when the applause had subsided, and the orchestra, one mouth-organ strong, promptly struck up a lilting music-hall ditty. From that he slid into 'My Little Grey Home,' with a very liberal measure of time to the long-drawn notes especially. The song was caught up and ran down the trench in full chorus. When it finished the orchestra was just on the point of starting another tune, when 'Enery held up his hand. '"'E goes on Sunday to the church, an' sits among the choir."' he quoted solemnly and added, 'Voices 'eard, off.' Two or three men were singing in the German trench, and as they sang the rest joined in and 'Deutschland ueber Alles' rolled forth in full strength and harmony. 'Bray-vo! An' not arf bad neither,' said Private Robinson approvingly. 'Though I dunno wot it's all abart. Now s'pose we gives 'em another.' They did, and the Germans responded with 'The Watch on the Rhine.' This time Private Robinson and the rest of the Towers recognised the song and capped it in great glee with 'Winding up the Watch on the Rhine,' a parody which does not go out of its way to spare German feelings. 'An' 'ow d'you like that, ol' sossidge scoffers?' demanded Private Robinson loudly. 'You vait,' bellowed a guttural voice. 'Us vind you op--quick!' 'Vind op--squeak, an' squeakin',' retorted Private Robinson. The German reply was drowned in a burst of new song which ran like wild-fire the length of the German trench. A note of fierce passion rang in the voices, and the Towers sat listening in silence. 'Dunno wot it is,' said one. 'But it sounds like they was sayin' something nasty, an' meanin' it all.' But one word, shouted fiercely and lustily, caught Private Robinson's ear. ''Ark!' he said in eager anticipation. 'I do believe it's--s-sh! There!' triumphantly, as again the word rang out--the one word at the end of the verse . . . '_England_.' 'It's _it_. It's the "'Ymn of 'Ate"!' The word flew down the British trench--'It's the 'Ymn! They're singin' the "'Ymn of 'Ate,"' and every man sat drinking the air in eagerly. This was luck, pure gorgeous luck. Hadn't the Towers, like many another regiment, heard about the famous 'Hymn of Hate,' and read it in the papers, and had it declaimed with a fine frenzy by Private 'Enery Irving? Hadn't they, like plenty other regiments, longed to hear the tune, but longed in vain, never having found one who knew it? And here it was being sung to them in full chorus by the Germans themselves. Oh, this _was_ luck. The mouth-organist was sitting with his mouth open and his head turned to listen, as if afraid to miss a single note.