tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">THE CAPTURED TRENCH

XIX.   TRAPPED IN A DUG-OUT XX.   THE WAY OUT XXI.   OUT OF TOUCH XXII.   A PRISONER OF WAR XXIII.   AT DÜREN CAMP XXIV.   ESCAPE XXV.   ON THE BARGE XXVI.   AT THE FRONTIER XXVII.   THE END OF A SPY XXVIII.   IN THE FIRING-LINE AGAIN XXIX.   THE BATTLE IN THE MUD XXX.   THE LAST STAND

Illustrations
HE HAD BLUNDERED RIGHT INTO A PARTY OF HUNS (Frontispiece)
"BY GUM, THAT'S A MIGHTY QUEER CHUNK OF COAL!"
"WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM
"IT'S SPUD MURPHY AND JOE JENNINGS!"

A LIVELY
BIT OF THE FRONT

CHAPTER I

Malcolm Carr's Decision

"Post in yet, Dick?" enquired Malcolm Carr, as he stood in the open doorway of a "tin" hut that formed part of the Wairakato Camp.

"Give the man a chance, Malcolm," was the reply. "You'll get your letters before we start. Expecting anything important?"

Malcolm Carr was a typical specimen of the youthful New Zealander. Although only seventeen years of age, he was a full inch over six feet in height, and, although broad across the shoulders, was sparely built yet supple of frame. His features were clear-cut and slightly elongated. A massive chin betokened force of character. His deep-set, grey eyes gave promise of an alertness and keenness of vision that are the attributes of a healthy, open-air life.

He was dressed in a soft flannel shirt open at the neck, buckskin riding-breeches, leggings, and strong laced boots, the latter provided with spurs. On his left wrist he wore a watch in a leather case that bore signs of hard usage and exposure to the weather. Attached to his belt was a sheath-knife, while in contrast to his up-country appearance he carried in the breast-pocket of his shirt a canvas-covered notebook, a couple of pencils, and a fountain-pen.

His companion, Dick Selwyn, differed little from him in appearance and attire. He was barely half an inch shorter than Malcolm--they raise tall youths in New Zealand--of greater girth, and slightly heavier. His large, muscular hands, however, were a marked contrast to the slim, supple, well-kept pair on which young Carr prided himself.

Both lads were pupils under the State Railways Department of the Dominion. Their college course completed, they were assisting in the survey of the Wairakato valley, where a projected line was about to be commenced to link up the east and west coasts of South Island.

It was an ideal existence, under perfect climatic conditions. The month was November--late spring. For three weeks no rain had fallen, yet on the breezy uplands the ground was green with verdure. Away to the west could be discerned the lofty ridges of the Southern Alps, some of the loftier peaks still retaining their garb of snow. To the eastward the ground sloped irregularly until the hilly country merged into the fertile plains that terminated upon the shores of Pegasus Bay.

Beyond the small collection of corrugated-iron huts and tents there were no signs of other human habitation. Farmsteads were few and far between in the Wairakato valley. Thirty miles of indifferent road separated the camp from the nearest village, while another forty miles had to be covered before the town of Christchurch--Malcolm's home--was reached.

"Hope the post will arrive before we start," remarked Carr as he turned to enter the hut, from which wafted the appetizing odour of frying eggs and bacon, the fumes of cheap kerosene notwithstanding. "Tell Kaitiu to take the large theodolite down to No. 4, and to be a jolly sight more careful than he was yesterday. Any signs of the Boss yet?"

Receiving a negative reply, Malcolm set to work to lay the table for breakfast--the two lads shared the same hut and meals. The interior of the hut was plainly yet substantially furnished. Table and chairs occupied a considerable portion of the floor space. Against the walls were cupboards and lockers, the latter mostly filled with plans and drawings. At one end was an oil stove, with a meagre supply of crockery and ironware above. Immediately opposite was a door leading into the sleeping-room. In one corner were a couple of sporting rifles and some fishing-rods, against which was leaning one of those ubiquitous objects of modern civilization--a motor tyre.

It was mainly on account of that motor tyre that Malcolm was anxious for the arrival of the camp postman. A new inner tube was wanted--badly. Without it there were long odds against juggernaut making the seventy-odd-mile run into Christchurch on the coming Saturday.

Juggernaut, minus one tyre, stood without, sheltering under a rick-cloth that did duty for a garage. A car of ancient and composite design--partly Daimler, partly Darracq, and with a suspicion of half a dozen makers' parts in the tout ensemble--the wondrous, once-discarded vehicle had been given