The trenches were about two hundred yards apart. Progress along the ditch was not easy, for it was choked with undergrowth and refuse. Moreover, there were here and there unburied Germans whom it were wiser to avoid. Occasionally the ditch was intersected by other routes—old trenches, and the like. Here they Stopped, Looked, and Listened, as they had been warned to do all their lives at more peaceful cross-roads far away. But all was quiet. Too quiet, Boone thought. On his previous excursions he had usually been aware of much life—furtive, guttural, inquisitive life—all around him. But to-night No Man’s Land seemed a desert. Boone whispered his suspicions to his squire. “I guess dat means de bums is goin’ to start somethin’,” observed Mr. Gogarty hoarsely. (He was regrettably tough in his speech. The thin veneer of hotel civilization had long been rubbed off him.) “We are fairly close to their wire now,” whispered Boone. “I am going to get out of this drain and prospect along their front. You go straight ahead, and watch out in case they come crawling down the ditch. If they do, give a whistle—just one—to warn me, and then beat it for the Sergeant. Otherwise, expect me here in ten minutes.” “I get you,” said James agreeably. Ten minutes later the pair met in the appointed spot. Boone was covered with mud and panting heavily; Gogarty was quiescent, except that he was emitting a peculiar noise. If he had been a cat, you would have said he was purring. “Seen anything?” asked Boone. “Yep.” “What?” “Two Dutchmen! Dey was in dis ditch—’bout thoity yards along. Keepin’ watch, I guess. _Some_ watch!” “Where are they now?” “Still there. Quite still—there!” “You mean,—?” “Well, I ain’t one to blow, but—I’m here, and dey are not! You seen anything, Captain?” “Yes; listen! There’s a German raiding-party, or something, mustering outside their wire. I saw them creeping into line, one by one, when the moon came out just now. They are coming across, and soon!” “How are dey going to get through our wire?” enquired practical James. “Either break it up with a five-minute trench-mortar bombardment, or creep forward and blow a few gaps with dynamite torpedoes. Now, I am going to wait here until they start moving. Then I shall get back, quick. Meanwhile”—Boone tugged at his field despatch-book—“I want you to take a note to Major Powers.” Flat on his stomach, Boone was squirming deep into the rank undergrowth of the ditch. “Hold this electric torch right down over the paper,” he said, “while I write. Keep a good look-out at the same time, and if you see any one, switch it off.” For two minutes Boone scribbled frantically. The fighting blood of all the Cruttendens was coursing in his veins. He forgot the official form of address: he omitted certain prescribed formulæ—the date, the hour, his own geographical position but he overlooked nothing else. The despatch, when completed, read: