“Hie!” called the private to me, “where’re yer goin’ to?”

“Back, ye bally ass!”

He looked his contempt. “’Ave yer b’ynet fixed?” he asked, by way of answer.

“Bayonet fixed?”

“Yes,” said he, “’urry up!  We’re late.”

“Late?” I repeated.

“For Gawd’s syke,” he exclaimed, “don’t yer know as ‘ow we are goin’ hout?  Goin’ over to the German trenches—­goin’ hout!”

[Illustration:  (C)_Famous Players—­Lasky Corporation.  Scene from the Photo-Play_

THE END OF A PERFECT DAY.]

[Illustration:  Cheerful beggars]

I gulped.  “Going to make a charge?”

“No ... goin’ HOUT ... listenin’-post.”  And that private started out across No Man’s Land as nonchalantly as though he were strolling along his native strand.  I followed.  I followed cautiously.  I don’t know how I got out.  I don’t remember.  I can’t say that I was frightened ... no, I was just scared stiff.  Five paces out I put my hand on the Englishman’s shoulder ...  I was quite close to him; don’t doubt it.  He stopped.

“How far is it to the German trenches?” I whispered.

“Eh?”

I raised my voice just a trifle.  I didn’t know who might hear me:  “How far is it to the German trenches?”

“Five ’undred yards.”  My companion started off again.  He stepped on a stick.  I jumped.  I jumped high.  We continued, then I stopped him once more.

“Are we alone out here?  Are there any Germans likely to be out too?”

“Why, yes ... plenty of ’em out here.”

“Do they go in pairs, like us; or have they squads of them....”

“Pairs, my son, pairs, brace, couples....”  The private strode on.

“Do our boys ever meet any of the Boches?”

“Sure!  Many a time.”

“What do we do?”

“Do?  Stick ’em, matey, stick ’em!  You’ve learnt to use yer b’ynet, ’aven’t yer?  Well, stick ’em ... kill ’em!  Don’t use yer rifle ... the flash would give you away, and then ye’d be a corpse.”

I felt I was a corpse already.  I felt that if there was any killing to be done that night he would have to do it, not I.

We crept more cautiously now.  My comrade did not tread on sticks.  I whispered to him for the last time:  “What are we out here for, anyway?”

Then he explained.  He was a good-hearted chap.  “Don’t yer know w’ot listenin’-post is?  W’y, there’s a couple of us fellows hout at intervals all along the line.  We get as close to the enemy parapet as is possible.  We watch and listen, lyin’ flat on the ousey ground hall the while.  We are the heyes of the harmy.  The Germans raid us on occasions.  Were these posts not hout, the raids would be more frequent.  They’d come hover and inflict severe casualties on hour men.  They can’t see the Boche.  We can.  Should one Boche, or five ’undred try to come hover that parapet, one of us must immediately set hout and run back to hour trenches and give the warnin’ for hour boys to be ready.  The other one of us stays back ’ere, and with cold steel keeps back the rush.”