The sharp explosions of anti-aircraft shells in rapid succession overhead caused Sawyer to glance upwards. Shading his eyes with his hand, he shook his head in disappointment at the marksmanship displayed, and slipped back again into a sitting posture. ‘What abhart leave ’ome?’ he inquired. ‘The captain says as ’ow each of us is to ’ave a turn--in doo course.’ ‘Bah!’ ejaculated Hagan contemptuously. ‘We all knows phwat in doo course mains.’ Meditatively refolding his letter, he consigned it again to its inner pocket. ‘There ain’t no proper foighting now naither--nothin’ but scrappin’ phwat doesn’t even kape the blood wharm in yez veins.’ Striking a match on the heel of his boot, he stared into space and forgot to use it. ‘I be afther thinkin’, Jock, it is now that I could be sphared, or not at all.’ ‘Wot’s wimmin to you now, anyway? ’Tis different with the married blokes,’ murmured Sawyer. ‘Won’t we both be killed in doo course?’ ‘We will that,’ agreed Hagan. ‘But, all the same, I could not lie happy loike widout I be afther settlin’ first wid the grocer.’ For some seconds Sawyer did not speak. In the cool calm of the autumn evening there arose before him the memory of a dozen little wayside cemeteries marked by stereotyped plain wooden crosses--the British soldier’s humble badge of honour won. With a whimsical smile upon his lips he wondered vaguely where his own resting-place would lie. ‘Ye see, Jock,’ persisted Hagan, ‘’tisn’t as if I was much wanted here just now.’ Sawyer, turning suddenly, stared hard at his friend’s bronzed countenance, noted the stern-set jaw, and ceased sucking his pipe. He had learned to read Tim Hagan’s moods with the accuracy of much practice in the course of many devious wanderings. ‘Humph! Wot’s the bloomin’ plan of campaign?’ he demanded. ‘Sneakin’ be’ind mud’eaps, or fightin’ in the open?’ Hagan mechanically refilled his pipe and rammed down the tobacco with mature deliberation. An indefinite hum of voices near the company cooking-pots and the sharp bark of a French 75-gun in the near distance accentuated the seclusion of the dugout. A dull crimson glow of sunset irradiated a cloudless skyline. To the rear of the wood the lowing of a cow sounded strangely out of place. On the left, cutting the winding line of trenches, lay the long, straight, deserted, _pavé_ road leading to the German lines. The scene, through many days of comparative stagnation, had grown contemptuously familiar. ‘I’m sick,’ said Hagan, ‘to-morrow morning as iver is.’ Sawyer, gurgling in a characteristic manner meant to denote mirth, shook his head.