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muttered Bettson. The incessant crashes prevented the words from being heard. “How are we to know? He’s dead, that’s all. You’d better get a stretcher.”
    But Corporal Sugger stood motionless, looking at the body.
    â€œ ’Ow the ’ell was I to know ’e wasn’t shamming? Easy enough. ’Ow was I to know?”
    This was what he’d been waiting for. What the devil did the rain matter? Bill stood outside his dug-out, examining his revolver and adjusting the string of his smoke helmet. The worse the weather, the better for the raid: the Hun wouldn’t expect them on a night like this. It was about time it came off, about time somebody did something. Hanging about in Railway Wood and being whizz-banged in Cambridge Road wouldn’t win the war. If other fellows, like those fellows in the 1st Battalion, were content to sit and smoke, well he wasn’t. Devil of a job he’d had, though, to get the Skipper to agree, and then there’d been all the excitement with the Colonel and the Brigadier, and all the reams of orders and instructions. There was too much talk altogether in this war: why not get on with it, and cut out all the quack? Just a few good chaps like Robbie and Freddy Mann and Jack Malcolm: all they wanted to do was to leave it to them, and they’d soon get it through. He’d know all about it, the pretty Hun, before a few more hours were over. He’d know. Bill got up on the firestep, and peered through the line of stakes into the darkness. There they were, tucked away. Let him get at them, that was all. He’d lived for this long enough—dreamed of it, ever since he’d first joined up. Gad, life wasn’t half worth living with a job like this in hand. Here were Freddy Mann and Robbie, and the Skipper was round there waiting. Now they’d show ’em. Bill laughed aloud as he gave a final hitch to his equipment, and swung through the driving rain along the trench.

CHAPTER X
    â€œAny news of the raid?” Private Beard looked up as Dick Bartlett
     entered, shook the water from his hat and wrung out the bottom of his tunic.
    â€œNone I’ve heard of. Where the ’ell’s my rations? ’Ere, Bett, you swine, you’ve bagged my bully beef.”
    â€œTell yer I ain’t—your tin’s over there. ’Ave this, too, if yer wants it. Ain’t they got nothing but this ’ere bloody bully beef?”
    â€œAnd can’t you do nothing but grouse about yer grub? Damned sight more than yer ever got when yer was down Limehouse, I’ll be bound. Chuck over the opener, Beard, old son.”
    â€œBetter if it was cooked. But ’ow the ’ell can yer get a fire going, night like this.”
    â€œJust as well. Remember what ’appened last week, time we made a bit o’ smoke.”
    â€œMean when Bob was knocked out? Bit o’ bad luck, that’s all that was. Can’t even do a bit o’ cookin’ now—it’s come to that. Where’s granddad?”
    â€œOut with the officer, same as usual.”
    â€œMore fool ’im—’e wasn’t asked to go. Ought to know better, old soldier like ’im—’e ought to know.”
    â€œAlways ’angin’ round ’im, yer know ’e is. Watches ’im like a two-year-old. Gawd knows why.”
    â€œWants it, p’raps.” Dick Bartlett dug vigorously into the tin between his knees. “Bit of a kid, our officer. But he’s growin’ up. ’Ow’s the kids, Beard?”
    Beard warmed to the one subject that never failed to awaken interest.
    â€œAin’t so bad. ’Ad a letter today. Bob’s got a touch o’ croup, and Lil she’s teethin’, but the missus says—’ere, where’s the letter? I’ll read yer what the missus says. Where the ’ell’s that letter? ’Ere, get up, Bett, you’re sittin’ on my