No. 2 Platoon, carried away by the infectious enthusiasm, joined in the shout. "Another word," cried the lieutenant, "and No. 2 Platoon shall go back into the reserve!" And amid the dead silence that followed that awful threat, Dennis reached them, lifting a warning finger. "Steady, men," he said. "Thank you for the welcome, but it's not done in the best platoons, you know. How are you, Littlewood?" "Top-hole, old chap! Where have you been, you beggar? You've managed to completely demoralise the company." "You shall have a narrative of my expedition all highly coloured, by and by," laughed Dennis. "I've had no end of a time, and I've brought back the news that we've got the Prussians in front of us by way of a change." "The dickens we have!" said Littlewood. "Any chance of their counter-attacking?" "That's the idea, old man. I'm going on listening-post to-night, and I shouldn't wonder if we get it pretty hot. Bob tells me you've had it in the neck whilst I've been away." "By Jove, yes!" said Littlewood gravely, "seventy-five casualties last night. Spencer's gone, young Fitzhugh, Blennerhasset, and Bowles, all killed. There wasn't enough of Bowles left to bury even--nothing but one boot with a foot in it--high explosive, you know, and he was only married two days before he came out!" "Rotten hard lines!" said Dennis, passing along the front of the platoon, and stopping before Harry Hawke. "You and Tiddler are 'for it' to-night, remember," he said, and the two men grinned delightedly. "Ah, Wetherby! Going strong?" "A1," replied the boy, as the parade was dismissed, "but I say, we've got beastly quarters this time. Look here," and he pointed to a mere dint in the side of the trench with a piece of sacking by way of protection from the vulgar gaze. "Hum! we'll alter that to-morrow--it's certainly not palatial," said Dennis. "I suppose there's none of my clobber come up?" "Oh yes, it's all here; I saw to that," said young Wetherby, blushing like a girl, as he pointed to a haversack and a brown valise which contained his friend's campaigning kit. "What a good little chap you are!" exclaimed Dennis. "Not at all. I fagged for you at Harrow, and somehow I had the idea you'd turn up," and young Wetherby blushed again. He was a pretty pink-faced boy, who wrote extremely sweet poetry in his odd moments. "Well, I'm going to have a shave," said Dennis; "and I say, Wetherby, you might grope in the kit-bag and put a refill in that spare torch of mine. I've got an idea it may be useful to-night. Oh, hang this rain!" The steady drizzle which had set in as the light faded had turned to a heavy, pitiless downpour. "What a night!" murmured Harry Hawke, as he lay on his stomach in two inches of water some twenty yards in front of the trench with his pal, Tiddler, beside him. "An' me on the peg to-morrer!" "Bet you there won't be no show," said Tiddler.