or on the firing-step.
The two had hardly exchanged a few low-pitched sentences when Bobby
was summoned back to the telephone.

"Is that Captain Little?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has your patrol come in?"

"No, sir."

Captain's Little's last answer was delivered in a distinctly
insubordinate manner. Feeling slightly relieved, he returned to the
firing-step. Two minutes later Angus M'Lachlan and his posse rolled
over the parapet, safe and sound, and Bobby was able, to his own great
content and that of the weary operators along the line, to announce,--

"The patrol has returned, sir, and reports everything quite
satisfactory. I am forwarding a detailed statement."

Then he laid down the receiver with a happy sigh, and crawled out of
the dug-out on to the duck-board.

"Now we'll have a look round the sentries, Sergeant-Major," he said.

But the pair had hardly rounded three traverses when Bobby was haled
back to the Signal Station.

"Why did you leave the telephone just now?" inquired a cold voice.

"I was going to visit my sentries, sir."

"But _I_ was speaking to you."

"I thought you had finished, sir."

"I had _not_ finished. If I had finished, I should have informed you
of the fact, and would have said' Good-night!'"

"How _does_ one choke off a tripe-merchant of this type?" wondered the
exhausted officer.

From the bowels of the earth came the answer to his unspoken
question--delivered in a strong Paisley accent--

"For Goad's sake, kiss him, and say 'Good-Nicht,' and hae done with
it!"

As already stated, Private Wamphray was returned to his platoon next
morning.

IV

But to regard the Buzzer simply and solely as a troglodyte, of
sedentary habits and caustic temperament, is not merely hopelessly
wrong: it is grossly unjust. Sometimes he goes for a walk--under some
such circumstances as the following.

The night is as black as Tartarus, and it is raining heavily. Brother
Boche, a prey to nervous qualms, is keeping his courage up by
distributing shrapnel along our communication-trenches. Signal-wires
are peculiarly vulnerable to shrapnel. Consequently no one in the
Battalion Signal Station is particularly surprised when the line to
"Akk" Company suddenly ceases to perform its functions.

Signal-Sergeant M'Micking tests the instrument, glances over his
shoulder, and observes,--

"Line BX is gone, some place or other. Away you, Duncan, and sorrt
it!"

Mr. Duncan, who has been sitting hunched o