barricade, and had held the same against the assaults of hostile
bombers until a Vickers machine-gun had arrived in charge of an
energetic subaltern of that youthful but thriving organisation, the
Suicide Club, or Machine-Gun Corps, and closed the street to further
Teutonic traffic.

During the night there had been periods of quiescence, devoted to
consolidation, and here and there to snatches of uneasy slumber. Angus
M'Lachlan, fairly in his element, had trailed his enormous length in
and out of the back-yards and brick-heaps of the village, visiting
every point in his irregular line, testing defences; bestowing
praise; and ensuring that every man had his share of food and rest.
Unutterably grimy but inexpressibly cheerful, he reported progress to
Major Wagstaffe when that nocturnal rambler visited him in the small
hours.

"Well, Angus, how goes it?" inquired Wagstaffe.

"We have won the match, sir," replied Angus with simple seriousness.
"We are just playing the bye now!"

And with that he crawled away, with the unnecessary stealth of a
small boy playing robbers, to encourage his dour paladins to further
efforts.

"We shall probably be relieved this evening," he explained to them,
"and we must make everything secure. It would never do to leave
our new positions untenable by other troops. They might not be so
reliable"--with a paternal smile--"as you! Now, our right flank is not
safe yet. We can improve the position very much if we can secure that
_estaminet_, standing up like an island among those ruined houses on
our right front. You see the sign, _Aux Bons Fermiers_, over the door.
The trouble is that a German machine-gun is sweeping the intervening
space--and we cannot see the gun! There it goes again. See the
brick-dust fly! Keep down! They are firing mainly across our front,
but a stray bullet may come this way."

The platoon crouched low behind their improvised rampart of brick
rubble, while machine-gun bullets swept low, with misleading
_claquement_, along the space in front of them, from some hidden
position on their right. Presently the firing stopped. Brother Boche
was merely "loosing off a belt," as a precautionary measure, at
commendably regular intervals.

"I cannot locate that gun," said Angus impatiently. "Can you, Corporal
M'Snape?"

"It is not in the estamint itself, sirr," replied M'Snape. ("Estamint"
is as near as our rank and file ever get to _estaminet_.) "It seems to
be mounted some