"Things look bad," mused Colonel Corkleg, viewing the surging horde of yelling Bavarians, who were now advancing again. He knew he was in a tight hole; he was also aware that the eyes of his men were on him. That is the Tommie’s way. In danger he looks to his officer. If the officer is still the same cool gentleman who has kindly but firmly guided him in the other affairs of peace and war—all’s well. But—if there is a sense of despair, a touch of pallor, a command given out in a nervous way, then that wonderful confidence which wins all battles dies out in a flash. Corkleg knew the working of the soldier’s mind. This was an occasion to preserve to the last the air of ease and the sense of hope. Between puffs of a cigarette he calmly issued his orders, directed the fire, and occasionally cursed a slacker who fiddled with his bolt. "Thank Heaven for our Maxims," he remarked to the adjutant, as he watched Cocky Dan and his gunners sending death and disorder into the German ranks. Then jumping over the dead bodies of some of his gallant men, he entered a little dug-out where the telephone was. Turning the handle, he waited. A faint tinkle quickly echoed through the din. "Hello—is that the brigadier?" "Yes." "We’re in a tight fix here, sir. We’ve lost the first line of trenches. The regiments on my right and left have gone. It looks as if we’re going to be scuppered." "Hold on, for God’s sake, colonel. Yours is the key of the whole line. They must not get it. We’ll reinforce you soon. Good-bye."