‘Wait a minute,’ I said, remembering something suddenly. ‘Do you know what to-day is?’ ‘Friday,’ he volunteered, ‘and to-morrow ought to be a half-holiday, but it won’t be, ’cos we’re going into action.’ I passed the port round again. ‘It’s only a fortnight since we celebrated the battery’s first birthday,’ I said, ‘but to-day the Royal Regiment of Artillery is two hundred years old. Let’s drink its health.’ And we did. FOOTNOTES: [10] A certain number of batteries. _THE REHABILITATION OF PRIVATE HAGAN._ BY ‘MAJOR, R.A.M.C.’ Private Timothy Hagan, of ‘D’ Company, extracted a box of matches from his pocket, mechanically lighted a seasoned briar pipe, and sought inspiration from the log roof of the dugout. The last of the enemy’s usual evening salvo of shells screamed above the tree-tops and burst harmlessly in a stubble field. Hagan did not move. The announcement that the evening meal was ready equally failed to interest him. The dugout, efficiently constructed of sand-bags, logs, and earth, was just large enough for the accommodation of two improvised beds and blankets. Private Sawyer, the normal occupant of the other half, was at the moment busy in the kitchen outside beneath the trees. It was seclusion that Hagan courted, not protection. Presently, Sawyer, his face smoke-begrimed and heated, thrust his head over a sand-bag parapet. ‘Tea ready, cooky,’ he cried. ‘Phwat’s the good ov thay?’ grunted Hagan, dropping his pipe listlessly. ‘Fed up!’ Sawyer’s eyes dilated in speechless surprise. His rapid scrutiny of his pal’s downcast features failed to help. ‘’Ullo, what’s wrong, hey?’ he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand and dropping into the trench. ‘Can’t yer high-class stomach relish bully-beef no more? What’s wrong with it?’ Without answering in words Timothy slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his tunic, produced a much-thumbed envelope, and slowly unfolded a letter. The sight of the irregular writing seemed to have an immediate tonic effect upon his demeanour. His eyes suddenly became suffused with red-blood anger. (He had learned the habit in more than one barbed-wire scrimmage against the enemy.) Clenching his fists, he cursed beneath his breath, thoughtfully, with intent. ‘H’m!’ grunted Sawyer sympathetically. ‘There’s a blighter at home,’ stammered Hagan, ‘phwat is afeared to do his bit out here’--he hesitated as if to swallow pent-up gorge--‘of the name of O’Shea--a damned thaivin’ grocer. The letter says as how he’s afther walking out wid Kitty Murphy, as is promised to mesilf.’ ‘Ugh, a woman is it?’ breathed Sawyer. ‘And me not able to get me hands on him,’ groaned Hagan. ‘’Tis perishin’ hard.’