By this time Setley had grown more accustomed to the dim light. Half lying, half sitting upon one of the benches was a mere lad of about nineteen or twenty, burly of figure, round-faced except for a pronounced hollow in his cheeks, and with dark brown eyes in which lurked a suspicion of constant mental strain. He had discarded his tunic, revealing a Cardigan jacket. Otherwise he was fully dressed, even to his muddy boots, from which the warm vapour rose like steam from the back of an overworked horse on a cold day. Pulled well down over his head was a grey woollen cap, while wrapped loosely round his neck was a khaki-coloured scarf. "In the absence of a mutual friend to introduce us," remarked the recumbent occupant of the sleeping-place, "I suppose we must do the honours ourselves. My name's Penfold--No. 142857, which is jolly easy to remember if you know anything about recurring decimals. What's yours?" Setley told him, adding gratuitously that he was a bank clerk. "That so?" remarked Penfold. "I was in a shipping office. And your chum?" "Alderhame is my name," replied the actor. "My profession? Well, I used to tread the boards." "Strikes me you'll still tread the boards and feel jolly sick at doing it before long," rejoined Penfold with a laugh. "Duck-boards I mean. We were to have been relieved at eight this evening. Another regiment is supposed to take our place, but they didn't turn up. Why, I don't know; there wasn't much of a barrage this evening--and now the infernal racket is starting again." Heavy shells exploding in front and behind the lines of trenches shook the dug-out until the timbering seemed in imminent danger of giving way. For some moments there was silence in the underground refuge. The continuous crash without was appalling. "Is this place shell-proof?" asked Alderhame. "Nothing is," replied Penfold nonchalantly. "A direct hit with a big shell and it's 'Gone West' with the three of us. Hullo!" The waterproof-sheet was drawn aside and a red-faced sergeant, the moisture running in rivulets from his steel helmet, thrust his head into the reeking dug-out. "Look slippy, you chaps!" he exclaimed. "Every man is wanted. There's a massed attack developing." CHAPTER III THE NIGHT ATTACK SNATCHING up their rifles the three men hurried from the dug-out, nearly colliding with the rest of their chums who were returning at the first alarm to get their equipment. "Follow me," exclaimed Penfold. "Keep well down." At the fifth or sixth step along the tortuous communication trench Setley trod on something not so yielding as mud, but comparatively soft. He stooped and felt the object with his hand. His fingers came in contact with a human face. "There's a man lying here!" he called out to Penfold, who was a few paces in front. "I know," replied his new chum. "He's been there for the last three hours. Our fellows haven't had time to bring him in yet. Don't worry about that; you'll soon get used to it."