Peter, relieved by Purves, stumbled down from his eyrie at about two o’clock; found Colonel Stark and Doctor Carson sitting over the dÉbris of lunch.

“Very sad,” the Irishman was saying.

“What is?” asked Peter, slipping off his gas-satchel, sitting down to cold beef.

“Poor Halliday’s been killed,” answered the Weasel. “Doc’s just been up to Vermelles on a push-bike.”

“They nearly got me too. Bromley’s crowd have been having a pretty rotten time.”

The casualty, first among their officers, cast a gloom over the three men. Soon, the Doctor went back to his impromptu surgery—a tiny room off the hall where his batman had set out from their wicker cases, bandages, shining instruments, bottles of disinfectants, boxes of tabloids.

“Sportsman, the doctor,” commented Stark.

The telephone on the shelf began buzzing; Peter went to it; picked up the receiver. “Seventh Don Ack ... Adjutant fourth Southdown Brigade ... Brigade Major wishes to speak to you, sir ... Right ...” A pause ... “That you, Jameson? Look here, we want your batteries to open fire again....” Followed map-references which Peter repeated. ... “Yes. The loophole plates. But go slow with your ammunition.”

Stark glanced at the big marked map on the wall; saw that the targets were the same as those for the previous day. “Infantry held up, I suppose,” he said. “What was that about ammunition? ... Very well, tell the batteries to fire a round a minute. H.E.,^[10] of course. You might go down and see how they’re getting on. Tell Mr. Black I want to see him; and send in a telephonist as you pass the dug-out.”

“Now I wonder,” thought the Weasel, as he sat alone over his map, “what is going to happen. Better be prepared for the worst, I suppose.”

The little Regimental Sergeant Major came bounding in; saluted; stood to attention.

“Got your note-book, Mr. Black?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take this down please. ‘O.C. Waggon-lines, A and B batteries. On receipt of this, you will harness-up and be prepared to move forward at a minute’s notice. Acknowledge by bearer.’ Got that, Sergeant Major?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Repeat it to Mr. Murphy at the Ammunition Column.” Mr. Black stretched out the scribbled messages. Stark signed them. “Have them both sent by cyclist orderly, at once, please. Tell the orderlies they’ll be put under arrest if they’re not back in an hour and a half. Make them report to you personally, please.”

“And Headquarters, sir?”

“Same instructions, Mr. Black. The Adjutant’s horses and mine to be waiting saddled-up at the back of the Fosse; the rest, ready to move off with the batteries. Have the servants pack up everything except the Mess-box at once. Do you quite understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rations all right?”

“Yes, sir. Two days’ supply.”

“Very good. Send Bombardier Michael to me, please....”

High explosive.