“Is that Captain Little?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has your patrol come in?”

“No, sir.”

Captain’s Little’s last answer was delivered in a distinctly insubordinate manner.  Feeling slightly relieved, he returned to the firing-step.  Two minutes later Angus M’Lachlan and his posse rolled over the parapet, safe and sound, and Bobby was able, to his own great content and that of the weary operators along the line, to announce,—­

“The patrol has returned, sir, and reports everything quite satisfactory.  I am forwarding a detailed statement.”

Then he laid down the receiver with a happy sigh, and crawled out of the dug-out on to the duck-board.

“Now we’ll have a look round the sentries, Sergeant-Major,” he said.

But the pair had hardly rounded three traverses when Bobby was haled back to the Signal Station.

“Why did you leave the telephone just now?” inquired a cold voice.

“I was going to visit my sentries, sir.”

“But I was speaking to you.”

“I thought you had finished, sir.”

“I had not finished.  If I had finished, I should have informed you of the fact, and would have said’ Good-night!’”

“How does one choke off a tripe-merchant of this type?” wondered the exhausted officer.

From the bowels of the earth came the answer to his unspoken question—­delivered in a strong Paisley accent—­

“For Goad’s sake, kiss him, and say ‘Good-Nicht,’ and hae done with it!”

As already stated, Private Wamphray was returned to his platoon next morning.

IV

But to regard the Buzzer simply and solely as a troglodyte, of sedentary habits and caustic temperament, is not merely hopelessly wrong:  it is grossly unjust.  Sometimes he goes for a walk—­under some such circumstances as the following.

The night is as black as Tartarus, and it is raining heavily.  Brother Boche, a prey to nervous qualms, is keeping his courage up by distributing shrapnel along our communication-trenches.  Signal-wires are peculiarly vulnerable to shrapnel.  Consequently no one in the Battalion Signal Station is particularly surprised when the line to “Akk” Company suddenly ceases to perform its functions.

Signal-Sergeant M’Micking tests the instrument, glances over his shoulder, and observes,—­

“Line BX is gone, some place or other.  Away you, Duncan, and sorrt it!”

Mr. Duncan, who has been sitting hunched over a telephone, temporarily quiescent, smoking a woodbine, heaves a resigned sigh, extinguishes the woodbine and places it behind his ear; hitches his repairing-wallet nonchalantly over his shoulder, and departs into the night—­there to grope in several inches of mud for the two broken ends of the wire, which may be lying fifty yards apart.  Having found them, he proceeds to effect a junction, his progress being impeded from time to time by further bursts of shrapnel.  This done, he tests the new connection, relights his woodbine, and splashes his way back to Headquarters.  That is a Buzzer’s normal method of obtaining fresh air and exercise.