home below ground as above
it. In most peaceful times we were accustomed to spend eight hours a
day there, lying up against the "face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet
high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed
any ordinary man with cramp. But there are few ordinary men in
"K(1)" There is never any difficulty in obtaining volunteers for the
Tunnelling Company.

So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, mining, viewed
under our present heading--namely, Winter Sports--offers the following
advantages to its participants:--

(1) In winter it is much warmer below the earth than upon its surface,
and Thomas Atkins is the most confirmed "frowster" in the world.

(2) Critics seldom descend into mines.

(3) There is extra pay.

The disadvantages are so obvious that they need not be enumerated
here.

In these trenches we have been engaged upon a very pretty game of
subterranean chess for some weeks past, and we are very much on our
mettle. We have some small leeway to make up. When we took over these
trenches, a German mine, which had been maturing (apparently unheeded)
during the tenancy of our predecessors, was exploded two days after
our arrival, inflicting heavy casualties upon "D" Company. Curiously
enough, the damage to the trench was comparatively slight; but
the tremendous shock of the explosion killed more than one man by
concussion, and brought down the roofs of several dug-outs upon
their sleeping occupants. Altogether it was a sad business, and the
Battalion swore to be avenged.

So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram--usually called Bertie the
Badger, in reference to his rodent disposition--to make the first move
in the return match. So Bertie and his troglodyte assistants sank
a shaft in a retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded to
burrow forward towards the Boche lines.

After certain days Bertie presented himself, covered in clay, before
Colonel Kemp, and made a report.

Colonel Kemp considered.

"You say you can hear the enemy working?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Near?"

"Pretty near, sir."

"How near?"

"A few yards."

"What do you propose to do?"

Bertie the Badger--in private life he was a consulting mining engineer
with a beautiful office in Victoria Street and a nice taste in
spats--scratched an earthy nose with a muddy forefinger.

"I think they are making a defensive gallery, sir," he announced.

"Let us have your statement in the simp