If you see a man, en déshabille, sitting out in the sun, with an earnest, intent look on his face, and a garment in his hands, you can safely bet one of two things. He is either (1) mad, (2) hunting. It adds variety to life to watch him from afar, and then have a sweepstake on the total with your friends. You need not fear the victim’s honesty. He will count each murdered captive as carefully as though he were (or she were!) a batch of prisoner Fritzes. There is a great element of luck about the game, too; you never can tell. Some men develop into experts. Lightning destroyers, one might say. A brand-new subaltern joined the sweepstake one day, and he bet 117. The chap had only been at it half an hour by the clock, too! The new sub. won. You can always tell a new sub. You go up to him and you say politely: “Are you--er ... yet?” If he looks insulted he is new. If he says, “Yes, old top, millions of ’em!” and wriggles, he is old! There was a man once who had a champion. He said he got it in a German dug-out; anyhow, it was a pure-blooded, number one mammoth, and it won every contest on the measured yard, against all comers. He kept it in a glass jar, and fed it on beef. It died at the age of two months and four days, probably from senility brought on by over-eating and too many Derbies. Thank heaven the breed was not perpetuated, albeit the Johnny who owned it could have made a lot of money if he had not been foolishly careful of the thing. He buried it in a tin of Keating’s--mummified, as it were--and enclosed an epitaph: “Here lie the last ligaments of the largest louse the Lord ever let loose!” Some people think Fritz started the things, as a minor example of frightfulness. One of them caused a casualty in the regiment, at all events. A new sub., a very squeamish chappie, found _one_--just one!--and nearly died of shame. He heard petrol was a good thing, so he anointed himself all over with it, freely. Then his elbow irritated him, and he lighted a match to see if it was another! He is still in hospital! BOMBS We counted them as they came up the communication trench, and the Commander of “AK” Company paled; yet he was a brave man. He cast a despairing glance around him, and then looked at me. “George,” he said (you may not believe it, but there can be a world of pathos put into that simple name). “_George_, we are Goners.” By this time they had reached the front line. My thoughts flew to the Vermoral sprayer, last time it had been the Vermoral sprayer. Was the V.S. filled, or was it not...? They came from scent to view, and pulling himself together with a click of the heels closely imitated by the S.I.C., the O.C. “AK” Coy. saluted. “Good morning, sir!”