attack?" shouted Bobby to Wagstaffe,
battling against the noise of bursting shells.

"Quite soon--in a minute or two. Their guns will stop directly--to
lift their sights and set up a barrage behind us. Then, perhaps the
Boche will step over his parapet. Perhaps not!"

The last sentence rang out with uncanny distinctness, for the German
guns with one accord had ceased firing. For a full two minutes there
was absolute silence, while the bayonets in the opposite trenches
twinkled with tenfold intent.

Then, from every point in the great Salient of Ypres, the British guns
replied.

Possibly the Imperial General Staff at Berlin had been misinformed as
to the exact strength of the British Artillery. Possibly they had been
informed by their Intelligence Department that Trades Unionism, had
ensured that a thoroughly inadequate supply of shells was to hand in
the Salient. Or possibly they had merely decided, after the playful
habit of General Staffs, to let the infantry in the trenches take
their chance of any retaliation that might be forthcoming.

Whatever these great men were expecting, it is highly improbable that
they expected that which arrived. Suddenly the British batteries spoke
out, and they all spoke together. In the space of four minutes they
deposited _thirty thousand_ high-explosive shells in the Boche
front-line trenches--yea, distributed the same accurately and evenly
along all that crowded arc. Then they paused, as suddenly as they
began, while British riflemen and machine-gunners bent to their work.

But few received the order to fire. Here and there a wave of men broke
over the German parapet and rolled towards the British lines--only to
be rolled back crumpled up by machine-guns. Never once was the goal
reached. The great Christmas attack was over. After months of weary
waiting and foolish recrimination, that exasperating race of bad
starters but great stayers, the British people, had delivered "the
goods," and made it possible for their soldiers to speak with the
enemy in the gate upon equal--nay, superior, terms.

"Is that all?" asked Bobby Little, peering out over the parapet, a
little awe-struck, at the devastation over the way.

"That is all," said Wagstaffe, "or I'm a Boche! There will be much
noise and some irregular scrapping for days, but the tin lid has been
placed upon the grand attack. The great Christmas Victory is off!"

Then he added, thoughtfully, referring apparently to the star
p