completely protected from the assaults of his
enemies if he can lay a sheet of corrugated-iron roofing across his
bit of trench and sit underneath it. At any rate it keeps the rain
off, and that is all that his instincts demand of him. An ounce of
comfort is worth a pound of security.

He looks about him. The parapet here requires fresh sandbags; there
the trench needs pumping out. Does he fill sandbags, or pump, of his
own volition? Not at all. Unless remorselessly supervised, he will
devote the rest of the morning to inventing and chalking up a
title for his new dug-out--"Jock's Lodge," or "Burns' Cottage," or
"Cyclists' Rest"--supplemented by a cautionary notice, such as--_No
Admittance. This Means You_. Thereafter, with shells whistling over
his head, he will decorate the parapet in his immediate vicinity with
picture postcards and cigarette photographs. Then he leans back with a
happy sigh. His work is done. His home from home is furnished. He is
now at leisure to think about "they Gairmans" again. That may sound
like an exaggeration; but "Comfort First" is the motto of that lovable
but imprudent grasshopper, Thomas Atkins, all the time.

A sudden and pertinent thought occurred to Mr. Bogle, who possessed a
Martha-like nature.

"What way, sir, will a body get his dinner, if we are to be fighting
for twa-three days on end?"

"Every man," replied Angus, "will be issued, I expect, with two days'
rations. But the Colonel tells me that during hard fighting a man
does not feel the desire for food--or sleep either for that matter.
Perhaps, during a lull, it may occur to him that he has not eaten
since yesterday, and he may pull out a bit of biscuit or chocolate
from his pocket, just to nibble. Or he may remember that he has had no
sleep for twenty-four hours--so he just drops down and sleeps for
ten minutes while there is time. But generally, matters of ordinary
routine drop out of a man's thoughts altogether."

"That's a queer-like thing, a body forgetting his dinner!" murmured
Bogle.

"Of course," continued Angus, warming to his theme like his own father
in his pulpit, "if Nature is expelled with a pitchfork in this manner,
for too long, _tamen usque recurret_."

"Is that a fact?" replied Bogle politely. He always adopted the line
of least resistance when his master took to audible rumination. "Weel,
I'll hae to be steppin', sir. I'll pit these twa blankets oot in the
sun, in some place where the dooks frae the