That was, as I have said, in 1916.  Much water had flowed between the banks of the river Somme before, in August, 1918, Joshua and I found ourselves in that neighbourhood once more.

But we did find ourselves there, for Joshua’s head had proved tougher than we thought, and with an enthusiasm beyond praise he had recently wangled his return to the old regiment from a cushy Base job, and was helping to hasten what we hoped and firmly believed was Fritz’s final “strategical retirement.”

We had had three strenuous days, and now, while others carried on the good work, we were resting by chance in that very wood of which I have already spoken.  I wandered forth at eventide over the familiar ground, which had lain for some time well within the German lines, and came suddenly upon the entrance to our old dug-out!  I went down into it and found that, apart from a litter of empty ration-tins, it was unaltered.  Then suddenly I bethought me of the caricature which still lay in my pocket-book.  I had never told Joshua that I had kept it.  It seemed a maudlin thing to have done and moreover might have given him an exaggerated idea of my opinion of his art.  I took out the picture and looked at it.  It had weathered two years of warfare fairly well.  Then with an indelible pencil I scrawled below it—­

    “Sehr gute Bilde.  F. Biermeister, 3 Preuss.  Gard,”

a hazy recollection of school-German leading me to believe that “Sehr gute Bilde” meant “Very good picture.”  Then I pinned it up on the wall and went in search of Joshua.

“Do you remember that dug-out we used two years ago?” I asked when I had found him.

“I do,” said Joshua.  “It was there that I told old Turnips I was called Joshua after the O.C.  Israelites at Jericho.”

“That’s the place,” said I.  “It’s somewhere round here.”  And I led him unostentatiously in the right direction.

“There it is,” he cried.  “It all comes back to me.  Got a flash-lamp?”

He disappeared below and I sat down and waited—­waited for sounds of astonishment and joy from the bowels of the earth.  But I waited in vain.  Silence reigned.  Then Joshua’s head was thrust upwards.

“Biermeister!” he called.  “You, Biermeister of the 3rd Prussian Guard, come away below here!  There is one, Sir Joshua Reynolds, an artist, would have a word with you.”

I shook my head sadly.  Another of my little jokes had proved a dud.  But I did not go below.  Joshua is so rough sometimes.

* * * * *

SICCIS OCULIS.

  To weep for the fallen who saved us is meet,
    But it causes no kind of surprise
  That RAMSAY MacDONALD’S and SNOWDEN’S defeat
    Has dried many millions of eyes.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  PIVOTAL INDUSTRIES.

Sergeant.  “LET YOUR ’AIR GROW ON SICK LEAVE, ’AVE YER, LITTLE GOLDILOCKS?  THAT AIN’T NO GOOD; YOU’RE TOO LATE TO BE DEMOBILISED FOR THE PANTOMIMES.”]