“It’s Lewis’s turn to-night, and Smith’s.” “All right, sergeant.” “Gr-r-r” (unintelligible). “Where’s Dodger?” “Out chasing them hares. Didn’t you hear the Captain say he’d be for it, if he didn’t get one?” “Gr-r-r. He won’t get any ---- hares.” Here followed a pause, and a lot of noise of plates and boxes being moved. Then there was a continued crackling of wood, as the fire was made up. Followed a lot of coughing, and muttering, and “Phew!” as the smoke got too thick even for that smoke-hardened crew. “Phew! Stop it. Jesus Christ.” More coughing, the door was opened, and soon a cold draught sped into our dug-out. There was but one door for both. “Shut that door!” I shouted. “Hi, Lewis, your bloke’s calling. Said, ‘Shut that door.’” Then the door shut. More coughing ensued, but the smoke was better, apparently, for it soon ceased. We were each, by the way, “my bloke” to our respective retainers. The conversation remained for some time at an inaudible level, until I heard the door open again, and a shout of “Hullo! Dodger. Coo! Jesus Christ! He’s all right, isn’t he? There’s a job for you, sergeant, cooking that bloke. Has the Captain seen him? Hey! Look out of that! You’ll have the blood all over the place. Get a bit of paper.” The “sergeant” (Private Gray) made no comments on the prospect of cooking the “Dodger’s” quarry, and the next minute Private Davies, orderly, appeared with glowing though rather dirty face holding up a large hare, that dripped gore from its mouth into a scrunched-up ball of _Daily Mail_ held to its nose like a pocket-handkerchief. “Look here, Dixon,” I said. “Devil’s alive,” exclaimed Dixon. “Then you’ve got one. By Jove! Splendid! I say, isn’t he a beauty?” And we all went up and examined him. He was a hare of the first order. To-morrow he should be the _chef d’œuvre_ in “B” Company mess at Morlancourt. For we went out of reserve into billets the next morning. “How did you get him, Davies?” “Oh! easy enough, sir. I’ll get another if you like. There’s a lot of them sitting out in the snow there. I was only about fifty yards off. He don’t get much chance with a rifle, sir.” (Here his voice broke into a laugh.) “It’s not what you call much sport for him, sir! I got this too, sir!” And lo! and behold! a plump partridge! “Oh! they’re as tame as anything, and you can’t help getting them in this snow,” he said. At last the dripping hare was removed from the stage to behind the scenes, and Davies joined the smothered babel behind the arras. “Wonderful fellow, old Davies,” said Dixon. “By the way, Bill,” he added. “How about getting the little doctor in to-night for a hand of vingt-et-un? Can we manage it all right?” I was Mess-president for the time, Edwards being away on a course. “Oh! yes,” I answered. “Rather. I’ll send a note.”