[Illustration: _Comedian_ (_who has been instructed to modify his humour to suit the taste of a select audience at a charity performance at the local theatre_). "THERE YOU ARE! NOT A LAUGH! THIS IS WOT COMES OF YOUR 'FUNNY WITHOUT BEIN' VULGAR'!"] * * * * * OUR BIVVIE. "Not a bad possie," said George, looking round the village. "Let's rustle a bivvie before the crowd comes along." All George's performances in the art of rustling bivvies rank as star. He permits no coarse and obvious gathering of an expectant horde about the opening door; no slacking of straps and bootlaces until the final "I will" is said on either side. He debouches in extended order on the doomed house; gets his range and has the barrage well in hand (the quantity and quality of Madame's gesticulations furnish the key to this) before Colin drifts off the horizon and shows a peaked face with haunting eyes over George's shoulder. Colin does not speak. That is not his _métier_. He is the star shell illuminating the position; and usually in about six minutes' time it is safe for John to put in an appearance with the kit. This is the recognised procedure, and it has served us indifferently well up and down three years of war and a good deal of France and Flanders. Therefore John was not to blame when, after waiting the scheduled six minutes, he arrived to find the other two still in the thick of it. Either Colin was not haunting up to form (which was likely, as he had been over-fed lately) or George's French (which was never made in the place where they make marriages) had scandalised Madame. She stood in the door like some historical personage, probably the Sphinx, and repeated a guttural kind of incantation while George stretched his ears until they stood out more than usual in a struggle to understand. "Rotten patois some of these people speak," he said. "I believe she has a room, though something's biting her. Likely enough Fritz went off with all her furniture; but I've already explained twenty times that that doesn't matter. _Écoutez, Madame._ We only want a room. _Chambre-à-coucher._ We can furnish it. We have three beds. _Trois lits._ _Trois_ stretcher-beds sent over from _Angleterre_. _À la gare._ We've just seen them. _Trois lits nous avons._ Three beds." "Beds!" Madame pounced on the word. "_C'est cela!_ No beds, _Monsieur_. _Je n'en ai pas._" "Ah, now we know where we are." George looked round triumphantly. "_Écoutez, Madame._ We don't want beds. _Nous les desirons jamais._ We have them. _Trois lits._ We don't want them. We have beds. _Comprenez?_" "No beds," explained Madame firmly.