“It is well known,” he points out, “that no two bullets ever hit the same spot. Nelson, or some other historical gink, once said that the safest place for a man to put his head during a sea-fight was a hole made in a ship’s side by a cannon-ball. Me for a shell-hole, every time!” Boone Cruttenden thinks an ordinary trench dugout would be best. Else what are dugouts for? “It depends on who made them,” replies the veteran Major Powers. “The German officer’s idea is all right. He turns on a squad of men, and they construct for him a combined club and restaurant somewhere near the centre of the earth. But even that is liable to have its exits blocked. Personally, if I were under bombardment, I should stay out in the trench. I am more likely to be hit, but less likely to be buried; and I don’t intend to go putting the cart before the horse at _my_ funeral!” All had an opportunity to test their theories—and their nerve—the first afternoon after taking over the trenches. Boone and Jim shared a dugout in the front line, sunk below the forward parapet, under the sandbags. Having contracted the British habit of afternoon tea, they were occupied towards five o’clock in brewing that beverage in a mess-tin, when suddenly, with a whizz and a rush, a German shell passed over the trench and burst amid a cloud of flying clods fifty yards beyond it. “This is the afternoon bombardment that we were warned about,” said Jim, pouring out two cups of tea. “Now we shall know whether we are shell-shy or not!” Boone took his aluminum teacup in his hand, and held it to his lips. Simultaneously another shell landed outside—fifty yards short of the parapet this time. The earth shook. Fragments of dirt and grit fell from the sandbag ceiling into the tea. Boone regarded the hand which was holding the teacup. He noted with secret satisfaction that though his heart was bumping slightly, the hand was as steady as a rock. “That is what is known as ‘bracketing,’ I guess,” said Nichols. “The next shell will strike an average between the ranges of the first two and get this happy home of ours just where the cork got the bottle.” He was right—or nearly. Next moment, with a triumphant shriek, a shell landed fairly in the trench, fifteen yards to their right. They felt little concussion, for the trench was provided with stout earthen traverses, which limited the radius of the explosion and blanketed its force. “The question before the House,” said Boone, “is whether we stay where we are or go away from here. Hallo, what’s that?” A hoarse cry was passing down the trench from mouth to mouth—a cry which never fails to tug at a soldier’s heart, for he knows not what comrade may be involved: “Stretcher-bearers!”