deeper they had to dig and the slower
their progress.

As the little group of convalescents descended into a valley a bursting
shell from the Browns scattered its fragments over the earth near by.

"They drop one occasionally, though they don't expect to get more than a
man or two by chance, which is hardly worth the cost of the charge,"
some one explained. "You see that they must know just what our positions
are from their understanding of our army's organization, and the purpose
is to bother us about bringing up supplies and reserves. Start a
commissariat train or a company in close order across, and--whew! The
air screams!"

Once on the other side of the valley, and the maze of zigzags and
parallels leading into the warrens was simplified by signs indicating
the location of regiments. At length the judge's son found himself in
the home cave of his own tribe. His comrades were resting at the
noon-hour, their backs against the wall of their shell-proof. In the
faint light their faces were as gray as the dust on the dirty uniforms
that hung on their gaunt bodies. Dust was caked in the seams around
their eyes; their cheeks were covered with dusty beards. Their greeting
of the returned absentee was that of men who had passed through a strain
that left existence untouched by the spring of average sensations.

"Did you get the custards?" asked the barber's son in a squeaky voice.

"No, but I got a jelly once--only once!"

"Snob!" said the barber's son.

"Jelly! I could eat a hogshead of jelly and still be empty! What I want
is fresh meat!" growled Pilzer, the butcher's son.

"A hogshead of jelly might be good to bathe in!" said the banker's son.
"I haven't had a bath for a month."

"I have. I turned my underclothes inside out!" said the barber's son. He
was aiming to take Hugo's place as humorist, in the confidence of one
sprung from a talkative family.

Scanning the faces, the judge's son found many new ones--those of the
older reservists--while many of the faces of barrack days were missing.

"Whom have we lost?" he asked.

The answer, given with dull matter-of-factness, revealed that, of the
group that had talked so light-heartedly of war six weeks before, only
little Peterkin, the valet's son, and Pilzer, the butcher's son, and the
barber's and the banker's sons survived. They were sitting in a row,
from the instinct that makes old associates keep together even though
they continually quarrel. The striking