dozen of soda.  The earth-pounding Todd came out of his hole, gazed on the corrugated iron and saw visions, dreamed dreams.  He handed the hole back to the rabbit and set to work to evolve a bungalow.  By evening it was complete.  He crawled within and went to sleep, slept like a drugged dormouse.  At 10 P.M. a squadron of the Shetland Ponies (for the purpose of deceiving the enemy all names in this article are entirely fictitious) made our village.  It was drizzling at the time, and the Field Officer in charge was getting most of it in the neck.  He howled for his batman, and told the varlet that if there wasn’t a drizzle-proof bivouac ready to enfold him by the time he had put the ponies to bye-byes there would be no leave for ten years.  The batman scratched his head, then slid softly away into the night.  By the time the ponies were tilting the last drops out of their nosebags the faithful servant had scratched together a few sheets of corrugated, and piled them into a rough shelter.  The Major wriggled beneath it and was presently putting up a barrage of snores terrible to hear.  At midnight a battalion of the Loamshire Light Infantry trudged into the village.  It was raining in solid chunks, and the Colonel Commanding looked like Victoria Falls and felt like a submarine.  He gave expression to his sentiments in a series of spluttering bellows.  His batman trembled and faded into the darkness a pas de loup.  By the time the old gentleman had halted his command and cursed them “good night” his resourceful retainer had found a sheet or two of corrugated iron somewhere and assembled them into some sort of bivouac for the reception of his lord.  His lord fell inside, kicked off his boots and slept instantly, slept like a wintering bear.

At 2 A.M. three Canadian privates blundered against our village and tripped over it.  They had lost their way, were mud from hoofs to horns, dead beat, soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, fed up to the back teeth.  They were not going any further, neither were they going to be deluged to death if there was any cover to be had anywhere.  They nosed about, and soon discovered a few sheets of corrugated iron, bore them privily hence and weathered the night out under some logs further down the valley.  My batman trod me underfoot at seven next morning, “Goin’ to be blinkin’ murder done in this camp presently, Sir,” he announced cheerfully.  “Three officers went to sleep in bivvies larst night, but somebody’s souvenired ’em since an’ they’re all lyin’ hout in the hopen now, Sir.  Their blokes daresent wake ’em an’ break the noos.  All very ’asty-tempered gents, so I’m told.  The Colonel is pertickler mustard.  There’ll be some fresh faces on the Roll of Honour when ’e comes to.”