He would appear suddenly, smile seraphically towards us, and then disappear before our snipers could get on to him. At first of course we tried to pot him, but gradually our ferocity gave way to amazement and then to tolerance. At last came a day when Feodor climbed on to his parapet and made us a pretty little speech. We cheered him loudly, although we didn't understand much of it. Next day we brought down an interpreter and asked Feodor for an encore. His second performance was even more spirited than the first, and after a graceful vote of thanks to our benefactor we asked the interpreter to oblige. It appeared that from his boyhood Feodor had been apprenticed to an assistant piano-tuner in Varna. Rosy days of rapid promotion followed, and the boy, completely wrapped up in his profession, soon became a deputy assistant piano-tuner. Then followed the old, old story of vaulting ambition. The youth, his head turned by material success, sought to consolidate his social position by a marriage above his station, and dared to aspire to the hand of a full piano-tuner's daughter. The old man tried gentle dissuasion at first, but the obstinate pertinacity of the stripling made him gradually lose patience. He was a hale and hearty veteran, and when the situation came to a climax his method of dealing with it was stern and thorough. Seizing the hapless Feodor during an evening call he interned him in the vitals of a tuneless Baby Grand, and for three hours played on him CHOPIN'S polonaise in A flat major, with the loud pedal down. On his release Feodor had lost his reason and rushed to the nearest police-station to ask to be sent to the Front immediately. His object, he explained, was to end the War. The Bulgar authorities thought the plan worth trying and sent him off as a comitadjus; and to these circumstances we were indebted for his society. Every day we saw more and more of Feodor, and we grew to love him. As to sniping him now--the idea never entered our beads. Accordingly, while a deafening strafe proceeded daily on both sides of us, we remained in a state of idyllic peace and hatelessness. Then arrived the cruel day when the Brass Hats came round, and a large and important General asked us-- "But are you being offensive enough to the enemy in front?" "Offensive to Feodor, Sir? Impossible!" "You _must_ be offensive," he rejoined. "I don't think there is sufficient hate in this part of the line." It was this unfortunate moment that Feodor chose to step on to his parapet and call out cheerfully to the Great Man-- "Good morning, John_ee_!" For one tense moment I thought the General would burst. By an effort he pulled himself together, however, and shouted to my troops in a voice of thunder-- "At That Person in front--fifteen rounds rapid. Fire!"