At home, several thousand patriotic Welshmen, fellows of the same craft, were upholding the dignity of Labour, and the reputation of the British Nation, by going out on strike for a further increase of pay—­an increase which they knew a helpless Government would grant them.  It was one of the strangest contrasts that the world has ever seen.  But the explanation thereof, as proffered by Private Mucklewame, was quite simple and eminently sound.

“All the decent lads,” he observed briefly, “are oot here.”

“Good work!” said Wagstaffe, when Blaikie’s tale was told.  “What is the new trench for, exactly?”

Blaikie told him.

“Tell me more!” urged Wagstaffe, deeply interested.

Blaikie’s statement cannot be set down here, though the substance of it may be common property to-day.  When he had finished Wagstaffe whistled softly.

“And it’s to be the day after to-morrow?” he said.

“Yes, if all goes well.”

It was quite dark now.  The horizon was brilliantly lit by the flashes of big guns, and a continuous roar came throbbing through the soft autumn darkness.

“If this thing goes with a click, as it ought to do,” said Wagstaffe, “it will be the biggest thing that ever happened—­bigger even than Charlie Chaplin.”

“Yes—­if!” assented the cautious Blaikie.

“It’s a tremendous opportunity for our section of ‘K(1),’” continued Wagstaffe.  “We shall have a chance of making history over this, old man.”

“Whatever we make—­history or a bloomer—­we’ll do our level best,” replied Blaikie.  “At least, I hope ‘A’ Company will.”

Then suddenly his reserved, undemonstrative Scottish tongue found utterance.

“Scotland for Ever!” he cried softly.

XXI

THE BATTLE OF THE SLAG-HEAPS

“Half-past two, and a cold morning, sir.”

Thus Bobby Little’s servant, rousing his employer from uneasy slumber under the open sky, in a newly-constructed trench running parallel to and in rear of the permanent trench line.

Bobby sat up, and peering at his luminous wrist-watch, morosely acquiesced in his menial’s gruesome statement.  But he cheered up at the next intimation.

“Breakfast is ready, sir.”

Tea and bacon are always tea and bacon, even in the gross darkness and mental tension which precede a Big Push.  Presently various humped figures in greatcoats, having gathered in the open ditch which did duty for Officers’ Mess, broke into spasmodic conversation—­conversation rendered even more spasmodic by the almost ceaseless roar of guns.  There were guns all round us—­rank upon rank:  to judge by the noise, you would have said tier upon tier as well.  Half a mile ahead, upon the face of a gentle slope, a sequence of flames would spout from the ground, and a storm of shells go whistling on their way.  No sooner had this happened than