The shelling continued. Most of the shells fell close to, but clear of, the dump, but another hit a pile of shells, exploding none, but setting a few splintered boxes on fire. The fire, fortunately, was smothered in a moment. Another burst just at the entrance to the curved road through the dump, smashing an ammunition waggon to a wreck of splintered woodwork and twisted iron, blowing two teams to pieces, and killing and wounding half a dozen men. There was a moment’s confusion, a swirl of plunging horses, a squealing of braked wheels, a shouting and calling and cursing. But as the smoke and dust cleared the confusion died away, and in five minutes the wrecked waggon and dead animals were dragged clear, and the work was in full swing again. Vickers, moving amongst the teams, heard two drivers arguing noisily. “What did I tell you?” one was shouting. “What did I tell you! Didn’t I say mules would stand shell-fire good as any hosses? Here’s my pair never winked an eye.” “Winked a eye!” said the other scornfully. “They tried to do a obstacle race over my waggon. An’ they kicked sufferin’ Saul outer your centres an’ each other. Yer off-lead’s near kicked the hin’ leg off’n his mate, anyway.” “Kicked?” said the first, and then stopped as his eye caught the red gleam of flowing blood. “Strewth, he’s wounded. My bloomin’ donkey’s casualtied. Whoa, Neddy; stan’ till I see what’s wrong. You’ll get a bloomin’ wound stripe to wear for this, Neddy. Whoa, you——” Vickers, remembering the snatch of talk, was able to tell the Colonel a moment later, “No, sir; the men don’t seem rattled a mite; and they’re working like good ’uns.” The shelling continued, but so did the work. The waggons continued to roll in, to fill up, and pull out again; the pile of ammunition boxes to dwindle, the heap of empty boxes to grow. Vickers scurried round, keeping an eye on smooth working, trying at intervals to press some of his stock of gas-shells on any battery that would take them. “I’ve fair got wind up about them,” he confided to one waggon-line officer. “If a shell hits them it will stop the whole blessed dump working. Then where will your guns be for shell?” The shelling continued, and caught some more casualties. Vickers superintended their removal, wiped his hands on his breeches, and went back to his office and his “returns” and the worry of trying to account for the shells scattered by the enemy shell in his dump. The men worked on doggedly. The gun-line wanted shells, and the gun-line would get them—unless or until the dump blew up. The shelling continued—although, to be sure, it eased off at intervals—until dawn; but by that time the last loaded waggon had departed and the dump was almost empty of shells. The German gunners were beaten and the dump had won. Presently the German line would feel the weight of the dump’s work.