He pointed to a faint ray of light emanating from an oblique shaft of a dug-out--that of the major of his company. The opening was for ventilating purposes, and was fitted with a piece of corrugated iron to prevent the water making its way into the underground room. From the shaft came the unmistakable odour of roast meat. One by one the men reconnoitred, and withdrew to a safe distance to deliberate. "Regular old food-hog," declared Alderhame. "Not only is he about to wolf a pound of meat, but there's a pudding and a packet of sausages. Presumably, his missis has sent him out a hamper." "Too much for one man, albeit a field officer," decided Penfold. "Lads, we must have some of that grub!" "'Ow?" enquired Anderson. "Yer can't just pop in an' say, friendly like: 'Wot cheer, major, old sport; 'ow abart it? Can yer?" "Can't we lure him out?" suggested Alderhame. "We might; but what's the use?" rejoined Penfold. "These officers' dug-outs have doors, and ten to one he'll lock it if he goes far from his grub." "You get him out," said Sidney Bartlett. "I'll do the rest. All we want is a light pole. There are some in the next traverse. Lash a bayonet to one end and spear what we can through that hole." "Sounds feasible," agreed Penfold. "Nip off and get the gear ready." In a short space of time Bartlett had rigged up his improvised fishing-tackle. "Now," he said, "I'm ready. You carry on, Penfold." Drawing his woollen cap well over his eyes and turning up the collar of his greatcoat as high as possible, Penfold knocked at the door of the Major's dug-out. "Well?" enquired a deep muffled voice testily. "Colonel's compliments, sir," announced the mendacious private, in an assumed tone. "He wants you to report to him at once upon the number of men left in this section of the trench." Grumbling, the Major issued from his subterranean retreat, carefully locked the door, and set out to find the company sergeant-major, in order to obtain the supposedly urgent information. Before he returned the four raiders were scurrying back to their dug-out, each with his mouth full of cold sausage, while Alderhame retained a painful impression of an otherwise appetizing repast in the shape of a cut on his cheek, caused by the end of the pole as the elated Sidney swiftly withdrew it with the prized booty impaled upon the bayonet. "Where's my first-aid dressing?" enquired the ex-actor, with mock concern. "'And patches will I get unto these scars And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.'" "Hardly good enough for Blighty," said Penfold, with a laugh. "My word, won't the Major be in a tear when he misses his sausages!" "Let him," said Bartlett. "He can only blame the rats." "Halt! Who goes there?" exclaimed the hoarse voice of a sentry in the next traverse. "Engineers' ration party," was the reply. "Is this the Royal Engineers?" "Rather!" replied the ready Penfold. "Dump 'em down; we'll fetch them."