They went on to night work again, and Winterbourne distinguished himself by pulling out of the ground a dud shell which the other men refused to touch, in case it went off. They crouched on the ground while Winterbourne tugged and strained to get it out, and Evans stood beside urging him to go easy. Suddenly Winterbourne went into a series of gasping chuckles, and in answer to Evans’ questions managed to jerk out that the alleged shell was a stump of wood with an iron ring round it. The men returned sheepishly to their work. In reward for his heroic conduct Winterbourne was allowed to join a gang who were pulling up real duds embedded in the _pavé_ of the main road, which had become available through the German retirement. They levered and tugged the shells up very gingerly, since the oldest duds are liable to explode if treated roughly. Winterbourne was glad when that little job was done. The nightly gas bombardments became worse than ever, and Winterbourne sometimes spent twelve hours a day in his gas mask. They used their respirators so frequently that a new set had to be issued. Since Evans was now temporarily in command and had only Thompson to help him and about forty men available for work, they did only one shift, which Evans and Thompson took on alternate nights. As Company Runner, Winterbourne carried all messages between the Company and Battalion H.Q. On the other hand, Evans always let him rest on the nights when he himself was not on duty. Winterbourne was profoundly thankful for these nights off. His winter cough, aided perhaps by microbes communicated by lice, had evolved into a sort of tertian ague. Every third night he had alternate fits of sweating and shivering. It was much pleasanter to lie down even in a damp cellar than to go up the line feeling utterly weak and feverish. He was sleeping soundly alone in the Runner’s cellar, oblivious to the Zwiing, PHUT, of the gas shells outside when he was awakened by Henderson, the other surviving Runner, who came stumbling down the cellar stairs in the darkness. Winterbourne lit a candle for him. Henderson had just taken off his gas mask, and stood with rumpled hair and a pale scared look. “What’s up?” said Winterbourne, “what’s the matter?” “Thompson’s killed.” “Good Lord! The only other officer! How?” “Whizz-bang.” “How did it happen?” “The Boche put up an attack to-night. Thompson took us off work, and told us to line a trench. He was standing on top, and told me to get into the trench. A whizz-bang burst just beside him. He died in five minutes.” “O God! Did he say anything?”