he cried, so fiercely that Hawke
stared at him open-mouthed.

"If you mean the singing bloke, sir--last I seed of 'im he was doin' a
bunk for his own battalion," replied the Cockney private. And Dennis
Dashwood's teeth closed with a snap, realising the utter futility of any
search for von Drissel just then.

"If you clap eyes on that man again, Hawke!" he exclaimed, "shoot him on
sight. He is a German spy!" And, leaving the astonished private to make
what he might of the information, he passed along the trench to find his
brother.

He came across him in whispered conversation with the Reedshires'
colonel in one of the trench bays on the right, and before he could
speak Captain Bob took him by the arm.

"It has come at last, old chap," he said, with the mysterious air of one
imparting an item of precious information.

"Yes," said Dennis grimly, "I know; we make the great attack at
half-past seven, and the Germans know it too. Look at this!"

Captain Bob and the C.O. read von Drissel's words by the light of a
star-shell, and the trio exchanged glances.

"Well, it can't be helped," said the C.O. "And I don't think the
information will do the enemy much good. Do you notice how dull the
sound of our guns is? It strikes one as odd."

It had not occurred to them before, but they realised it now as they
stood there in the trench bay, and others remarked the fact and wrote of
it afterwards. A hurricane of shells of every calibre, from the
whiz-bang of the field-guns to the enormous projectile of "Mother,"
passed continuously overhead in the darkness, to burst in the enemy
trenches, and yet the sound was less loud than many a purely local
bombardment had been.

It was a trying wait, and the dawn came with provoking slowness, a grey
mist veiling the ground until the sun gained power and the sky showed
pale-blue flecked with fleecy clouds. Men blew on their fingers, for the
morning was cold.

"It ain't 'arf parky," growled Harry Hawke.

"It'll be 'ot enough in a bit," said his pal, Tiddler. "What price Old
Street, 'Arry?"

"Chuck it!" replied the marksman of No. 2 Platoon. "No good thinking of
love and sentiment now." But for all that, perhaps, a fleeting vision of
his Lil passed through his untutored brain, and made him a shade paler
about the gills.

Tiddler noticed it and smiled to himself, knowing what it meant, for
when Hawke looked white it was time for his enemy to look out, and the
moment was rapidly appr