"You close your clock," said Dick, breaking into the middle of Ikey's speech; it's my turn at 'gassing,' and you know the law of this dugout: One story at a time and no interruptions from the rest. You have your opinion about Jerry, and I have mine. We both had a fair chance to form these opinions, and Yank's going to get the same square deal, without your influencing him by any of your propaganda remarks to swing him on your side. That's final, so shut up until I'm through." "Oh, all right then. If that's the w'y you look at it, go a'ead," answered Ikey, "but, believe me, you had better tell the story h'exackly the w'y it 'appened, or I'll h'interrupt, dugout law or no dugout law." "Shut up, Ikey," 'Curly' interposed. "Go ahead, Dick, we all might have something to say, unless you keep to the 'straight and narrow,' because we all have opinions about haunts and spirits." Dick commenced. "One afternoon a few months back, our gun's crew was sitting on the firestep, just in front of Gommecourt Wood. "Happy was busily engaged in rigging up a flash screen to hide the flare of our gun, which we were to mount on the parapet that night. "Sailor Bill--he hadn't at that time joined the Suicide Club--was sewing a piece of khaki cloth over his tin hat, because the night previous while on sentry go, standing in the moonlight, with his head over the top, the rays from the moon had reflected from his steel helmet, and a couple of German bullets had knocked up the dirt within a few feet of his head. "Hungry was wrestling with a tin of bully beef, while Curly was hunting for cooties, or answering letters, I forget which. "Ikey, with our mascot, Private Jim, was sitting on the firestep, his back leaning against a traverse, picking mud out of his harmonica with a sliver of wood. Private Jim was happy and contented, not knowing the fate in store for him. Two days later he was killed by a German bullet and we buried him behind the lines like any other bloke would be buried, wooden cross and all. "After working a few minutes at the harmonica, Ikey paused, put it to his lips, and blew into it; a squeaky, rattly noise resulted,--you know the usual kind. Then, with a deep sigh, he resumed the picking process. "I had just finished a letter home, and was sighing for the time to come when I would take the Kaiser, a prisoner, back to good old Dublin. "Although it was warm and sunny, still the floor of the trench was about three inches deep in soft, sticky mud,--worse than it is now.