scated by Government.

"Captain Thwaite 'as spared us from the Cemetery Works to relieve Corporal
Brice an' 'is little lot at Angle VII. South Trenches. A telephone-message
come from our Colonel to say Brice's men was bad with rheumatism and
dysentery--but Brice is all right an' fit, Sir--and"--the pale eyes
pleaded out of the brickdust-coloured face--"I'd like the charnce o'
gettin' nearer to the enemy, Sir--an' that's the truth."

Beauvayse conceded. "Very well. I'll square things with your commanding
officer as we go along, and explain matters to the Colonel per telephone
from Maxim Outpost South. Come on there when you've handed over your men
to Brice."

The pale eyes danced. "Thank you, Sir."

"An' I'll owe you a dollar whisky-peg for the good turn," muttered the
perforated musician, as he handed over the cherished concertina to the
volunteer, "till next Sunday that I see you in the stad."

"Righto!" said Corporal Keyse, accepting the sacred charge.

"Look here, though," came from Beauvayse, "there's one thing you must
remember--what's your name?"

"Keyse, sir--Corporal, A Company, Gueldersdorp Town Guard."

"Well, Keyse, you've heard Meisje hiccoughing ninety-four-pound
projectiles all the morning, haven't you?"

"Couldn't possibly miss 'er, sir"--the pale eyes twinkled as the Corporal
finished--"not as long as she misses me."

"She has a talent for missing, otherwise a good many of us fellows would
have heard the Long Call before now. But most of her delicate little
attentions--with the exception of one shell she sent over the Women's
Laager, to show the people there that she doesn't mind killin' females and
children if she can't get men--most of 'em are meant for Maxim Outpost
South; and one of 'em may get home sometimes, when the German gunner isn't
thinking of his sweetheart. Then, if you find yourself soarin' heavenwards
in a kind of scattered anatomical puzzle-map of little bits, don't blame
me for obligin' you, that's all."

There was a guffaw from the listeners. W. Keyse saluted, cheerfully
joining in.

"I shan't s'y a word, sir."

"By George, I believe you!" said Beauvayse. "What's up? Seen a ghost?"

Saxham had swung his wallet round, producing carbolic, antiseptic gauze,
First Aid bandages, and other surgical indispensables from its recesses,
as by legerdemain, and a tall, stately black figure, followed by a tall,
slender white figure, had risen from the bowels of the earth. The
Mother-