“Weel,” interposed Cosh, with forced geniality, “it’s no a thing tae argie-bargie aboot.  Whatever body lufted it, it’s awa’ by this time.  It’s a fine day, boys!”

This flagrant attempt to raise the conversation to a less controversial plane met with no encouragement.  Private Buncle, refusing to be appeased, replied sarcastically—­

“Aye, is it?  And it was a fine nicht last nicht, especially when the shellin’ was gaun on!  Especially in number seeven dug-oot!”

There was a short silence.  Number seven dug-out was no more, and five of its late occupants were now lying under their waterproof sheets, not a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre.  Presently, however, the pacific Cosh, who in his hours of leisure was addicted to mild philosophical rumination, gave a fresh turn to the conversation.

“Mphm!” he observed thoughtfully.  “They say that in a war every man has a bullet waiting for him some place or other, with his name on it!  Sooner or later, he gets it.  Aye!  Mphm!” He sucked his teeth reflectively, and glanced towards the Field Ambulance.  “Sooner or later!”

“What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?” inquired Nigg, who was not very quick at grasping allusions.

“He wouldna pit on the name himself,” explained the philosopher.  “What I mean is, there’s a bullet for each one of us somewhere over there”—­he jerked his head eastward—­“in a Gairman pooch.”

“What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?” demanded Nigg triumphantly.  “He doesna ken it!”

“Man,” exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, “can ye no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin’?  When I said that a man’s name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it was written there.”

“Then what the hell did ye mean?” inquired the mystified disciple—­not altogether unreasonably.

Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten out the conversation.

“He means, Sandy,” he explained in a soothing voice, “that the name was just stampit on the bullet.  Like—­like—­like an identity disc!” he added brilliantly.

The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands.

“I dinna mean onything o’ the kind,” he roared.  “What I intend tae imply is this, Sandy Nigg.  Some place over there there is a bullet in a Gairman’s pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! That’s what I meant.  Jist a mainner of speakin’.  Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?”

But it was the injured Buncle who replied—­like a lightning-flash.

“Never you fear, Sandy, boy!” he proclaimed to his perturbed ally.  “That bullet has no’ gotten your length yet.  Maybe it never wull.  There’s mony a thing in this worrld with one man’s name on it that finds its way intil the inside of some other man.”  He fixed Tosh with a relentless eye.  “A bit ham, for instance!”