We gave our forty-seventh impersonation of a pair of starfish, and then legged it for the apparent shelter of the houses. At least I did; the salvage man, less squeamish, found a haven in an adjacent cookhouse grease-trap and dust-shoot. I listened intently, but it was only the falling of spent shrapnel, not the patter of Dustbin's baby but quite enormous feet. A stove-pipe belching smoke and savoury fumes protruded itself through the pavement on my right. Through the chinks in the gaping slabs there came the ruddy flicker that bespoke a "home from home" beneath my feet; and then, still listening for signs of Dustbin, I heard-- "Didn't I tell you, Erb, to stop up that extra ventilation 'ole with somethin'?--and now look wot's blown in. 'Ere, steady on, ole man; that's got to last four men for three days." "Well, I'm ----," chimed in another voice, "if the bloomin' tin ain't empty. Why, I only just opened it--that's a 'ole Maconochie 'e's got inside 'im, not countin' wot you've just.... Poor little beggar must be starvin'. You're welcome to stop and share our grub, young feller, but I've got to go on p'rade wiv that--that's a belt, that is...." I turned towards the dimly lighted road that led to ---- [Censored]. Dustbin had found a home. * * * * * [Illustration: A FATEFUL SESSION. SITTING HEN. "GO AWAY! DON'T HURRY ME!"] * * * * * [Illustration: _Inquiring Lady_ (_ninety-ninth question_). "AND WHAT ARE YOU IN THE NAVY, MAY I ASK?" _Tar_. "I'M A FLAG-WAGGER, MARM--YES." _Inquiring Lady_. "OH, REALLY! AND WHAT DO YOU WAG FLAGS FOR?" _Tar_ (_in a ring-off voice_). "MAKIN' READY FOR THE PEACE CELEBRATIONS."] * * * * * THE MUDLARKS. The scene is a School of Instruction at the back of the Western Front set in a valley of green meadows bordered by files of plumy poplars and threaded through by a silver ribbon of water. On the lazy afternoon breeze come the concerted yells of a bayonet class, practising frightfulness further down the valley; also the staccato chatter of Lewis guns punching holes in the near hill-side. In the centre of one meadow is a turf _manège_. In the centre of the _manège_ stands the villain of the piece, the Riding-Master. He wears a crown on his sleeve, tight breeches, jack-boots, vicious spurs and sable moustachios. His right hand toys with a long, long whip, his left with his sable moustachios. He looks like DIAVOLO, the lion-tamer, about to put his man-eating chums through hoops of fire. His victims, a dozen Infantry officers, circle slowly round the _manège_. They are mounted on disillusioned cavalry horses who came out with WELLINGTON and know a thing or two. Now and again they wink at the Riding-Master and he winks back at them.