He made his way into the trench again, and came in sight of the dug-out, with its candle lit in a niche of the chalky wall, and its huddled occupants lying on the floor. A few, no doubt, were asleep. Two or three were sitting, their backs against the chalk, their heads bent down almost between their knees. All were dressed in sheepskin coats, khaki trousers and high boots, and wore full equipment, their cartridge pouches being well stocked with ammunition. Although a bank of earth was heaped up on the doorstep, it did not prevent the water from dripping inside. The floor of the dug-out was as mucky as the floor of the trench. Stooping down, Fitzgerald crawled in through the narrow door of the shelter. Bubb was already inside, scraping the muck from his boots with a clasp knife. Behind him, with his back against the wall, sat Bowdy Benners, cutting a lump of cheese into small portions. The cheese was a big item of the Christmas Eve rations. He was sitting down now, his head thrust forward, his big hands busy with the cheese. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, then glanced round the dug-out. "Not much grub to-night, boys," he said. "Four biscuits, a half a tin of bully and a piece of cheese for each man." "And the rum?" asked Bubb, forestalling every man with the question. "It's here all right," said Bowdy. They stared open-mouthed for a full second, then a roar of delight echoed through the dug-out and the sleepers awoke. Bubb rose to his feet, whirled his clasp knife round his hand, endeavoured to dance a jig, and only stopped when his head came in forcible contact with the roof for the third time. Fitzgerald chuckled; a glow of satisfaction lit up his handsome face, and his eyes rested lovingly on the sandbag which stood in an angle of the wall near the door. Then he lay back, rested his head on the wall and stared at the candle. In that position he looked a very charming boy, and he knew it. In civil life he must have been very fond of society, the company of notable people, and above all of pretty women. Again he looked at the sandbag in the angle of the wall, but his eyes were not the only ones fixed on that object. And no wonder: the sandbag contained the rum jar. "Well, wot about a tot?" asked Bubb. Bowdy rose and took the sandbag into the middle of the room, where he uncovered the precious jar and filled a mess-tin of liquor. He handed the tin to Bubb. "Cheero!" said the Cockney, and drank. He passed the tin round and wiped his lips. "There's some guts in rum," he muttered, and his voice was full of emotion. "Gawd! it doesn't 'arf warm up the inside of a bloke. Now, wot about a Christmas dinner?" he continued. "Bully ain't wot one would call très bon, is it? Christmas dinner of bully beef! Gor'blimey! that's no blurry good!"