Winterbourne in his turn feverishly put on his equipment, buckled his pack, and cleaned his rifle. They stood, rifles and bayonets ready, in the low cellar, ready to spring up the broken stairs as soon as they were warned. In a moment such as this, a kind of paroxysm of humanity, the most difficult thing is to wait. They dreaded the awful storm thundering above them, but they were irresistibly hallucinated by it, eager to plunge in and be done with it. The German shells thudded continuously all round them, muted by the vaster clamour of the attacking artillery. No orders came. They fidgeted, exclaimed, and finally one by one sat silent on their packs, listening. A large rat ran down the cellar stairs and began to nibble something. The beast was exactly level with Winterbourne’s head. He shoved a cartridge into the breech of his rifle, murmuring “Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, and they no breath at all?” He aimed very carefully and pulled the trigger; there was a terrific bang in the confined cellar, and the rat was smashed dead in the air. Not ten seconds later a red, perspiring face under a steel helmet was anxiously poked through the cellar entrance. It was the Orderly Sergeant. “What the muckin hell are you doing down there?” “Having a spree—didn’t you hear the champagne cork?” “Spree be mucked—one of you buggers fired his rifle and muckin near copped me. Mucked if I don’t report the muckin lot of yer.” “Wow I Put a sock in it!” “Muck off!” “Ord’ly sergeants are cheap to-day!” “Well, you muckers got to report to yer orfficers at once. ’Op it.” They ran up the broken stairs, pretending to poke their bayonets at him, and laughing, perhaps a little hysterically. The fat good-natured little Sergeant went off, shaking his fist at them, shouting awful threats about the punishment awaiting them with a broad affectionate grin on his face. * * * * *