"Good luck to 'em, then!" rejoined the speaker. "But where the deuce are the rations? There's no barrage fire on now, an' we ain't seen no grub for two whole days." "Keep your heads down, lads." The caution was hardly necessary. Each man was bent almost double. Over the parapet on the left a whiz-bang exploded, sending a shower of dirt upon the soldiers' steel helmets. Trench mortars were lobbing their deadly missiles into the British second-line trenches. "Here you are," explained the guide as the head of the platoon emerged into a short "bay" or section of the winding trench. "Two men to each dug-out, sir; t'other fellows will show 'em the ropes better. C.O.'s dug-out is fifty yards further on, sir." "Stick to me, Setley," whispered Alderhame. "Will if I can," replied Ralph. "They're telling us off in pairs." "You two in there," ordered a strange sergeant, indicating what appeared to be a glorified rabbit-hole burrowed out of the side of the trench. "New chums, mates," he continued, calling to the as yet invisible denizens of the subterranean dwelling. "Come in," said a youthful voice. "Mind your head. I thought it was Dixon with the grub. Don't keep the curtain held back longer than usual. It isn't healthy, you know." Down nine steps cut into the slippery clay, each succeeding step being a little more like liquid slime than the preceding one, Setley made his way, the top edge of his pack rubbing against the cross timbers of the roof of the obliquely sloping tunnel. His hand came in contact with a clammy ground-sheet, termed by courtesy a curtain. Pulling it aside he had his first vision of the interior of a dug-out--his temporary abode during his "turn" in the trenches. The excavation measured roughly twelve feet by nine, its height being barely sufficient to allow a tall man to stand upright. At the end furthest from the entrance was a stove fashioned out of an old tin bucket and provided with a decidedly inefficient chimney, since most of the fumes wafted into the dug-out. On the stove a "billy" was boiling. Stuck on the end of a flat piece of iron projecting from the wall was a guttering candle, the sole illumination, its yellow light being hardly powerful enough to penetrate the smoky atmosphere. Against a horizontal slab of wood reposed six rifles, while on slightly raised benches against the side walls were bundles of damp straw, rolled blankets and kit-bags. "That's right," continued the voice that had bidden the strangers enter. "Sling your gear on that bench, and please don't trouble to wipe your boots. We didn't bother to polish the floor this morning." Ridding himself of his rifle and pack, an example that Alderhame was quick to follow, Ralph turned his attention to his facetious new comrade.