"Goin' to 'ave a kip, Flanagan?" he asked in a gentle voice. "Turnin' in fer a spell?" "Just for a while," said Flanagan; "an hour or two." "Well ye're damned unlucky," said the sergeant with a chuckle. "We're goin' ter raid the henemy's trenches. We want to see what they're doin'. Indefication purposes ye know. They're too damned quiet 'ere. And you know when the German is keepin' quiet ye've got to oil yer hipe." The section was up and alert in an instant; anticipation flushed every face. "I'm in this 'ere game," said Bubb in a vehement voice. "Larst time I was out o' it." "All's in it, that is, every man in this platoon 'cept them just out," said the sergeant. "They'll stay 'ere an' mind the 'ouse while we're away." "I'm going out in the raid," said Reynolds in an eager voice. "I want to be in the fun." "Yer do, do yer?" asked the sergeant, scratching his head. "Ye never do wot ye want in this 'ere crush, my boy," he bellowed. "Ye just do wot I tell you; an' you'll find that quite enuff, 'fore ye're 'ere very long. If ye do wot I tell you and do it well ye're all right. I'll make it easy for you. That's me, Snogger." Reynolds lay back against the wall of the dug-out, his fair, youthful face lit by the glow of the candle which Flanagan had just placed in a niche of the wall. The boy was bitterly disappointed; the others were going over the top and he was to be left alone. He opened his lips to say something and his voice faltered; he was on the verge of tears. "Is there any means of getting out with you?" he asked. "Couldn't somebody stay back and let me go in his place?" "The bloke as doesn't want ter go isn't in this 'ere regiment," said Bubb. The sergeant, who had just gone outside, returned carrying a tin filled with a substance black and soft like soot. "Now boys," he said, as he placed the tin on the floor; "cover yer faces over with this an' be like niggers. A white face can be seen a good distance on a moonlight night, an' if ye're seen on this 'ere job, it'll be all up with the party--they'll be damned unlucky. "An' when ye've done that, get arf a dozen bombs apiece and bring 'em wiv you," the sergeant continued. "Also, get some brushwood--ye'll find it out 'ere ready for yer--and ye'll g'over disguised as a shrubbery. We'll crawl across, get up to the German trench and fling the bombs in. Then we'll come back again, the 'ole lot of us, if we're lucky.... What the devil's that?" The stretcher-bearers brought him in from the trench, a rifleman with a wound showing in his shoulder, and placed him on the floor. "One of the party that was to cross," said the sergeant; then asked: "Much 'urt, old man?" "Not much wrong," was the reply of the wounded man. "I'm sorry I'm not in the raid.... I looked across and then my shoulder burned...." "Well, I must get another man," said the sergeant. "You'll do, Reynolds. Get yer face blacked and get some bombs."