darkly.

I gripped his hand silently, and he returned the pressure with emotion. In silence we walked the two hundred yards which lay between my place and his observation post, and I watched while his orderly got busy with the telephone.

"Is Number One gun ready?" demanded the Major.

It appeared that Number One was itching to be at it.

"Fire!" said the Major.

"Fire!" said the orderly.

A moment later there was a terrific explosion.

"Number One fired, Sir," observed the orderly.

"It is well you told us," I said sweetly, "otherwise I could never have believed it."

But the Major heeded me not. He was staring over my shoulder.

"Good shot, by Jove!" he yelled. "A perfect beauty! Holed out in one!"

I turned to see what had caused his sudden joy. But where was my little 'ouse? Had it suddenly turned into that nasty cloud of dust? Even as I looked my water-bucket reached the ground again.

"Awfully sorry, old man," said the Major, with a ghastly, pretence of sympathy. "You see it was in our way."

I brushed aside his proffered hand (rather good that, Jerry. Let's have it again. I say I brushed aside his proffered hand), and strode back dismally to what had once been my home from home.

Now I live in a little dug-out beneath the ground, chickenless and mangel-wurzelless, awaiting with resignation the day when the Sappers shall find that I am in their way and blow me up.

Another little game of the gunners is called "Artillery Duels."

In the good old days, when a man wanted a scrap with his neighbour, he put a double charge of powder into his blunderbuss, crammed in on top of it two horse-shoes, his latch-key, an old watch-chain, and a magnet, and then started on the trail. It was very effective, but of course some busy-body "improved" on it. Nowadays our gunners ring up the enemy's artillery.

"Hallo! Is that you, strafe you? What about an artillery duel, eh?"

"Oh, what fun!" says the enemy. "Do let's." And then they start.

"A hearty give-and-take, that's what I like," remarks a cheery gunner officer.

A moment later he rushes to the telephone.

"Is that you, enemy?" he asks. "I say, dash it all, old man, do be careful! That last one of yours was jolly near my favourite gun."

"By Jove, I'm awfully sorry, old thing," calls back the enemy. "What about shortening the fuses a bit, eh?"

"Good idea! Waken up the foot-sloggers too. They need it sometimes."

Then for fifteen minutes large shells rebound from the bowed head and shoulders of the unfortunate infantryman.

Which reminds me of George.

George had a strafe-proof waistcoat procured by him from a French manufacturer. He showed it to us proudly, and also the advertisement, which stated that the waistcoat would easily stop a rifle-bullet, whilst a "45" would simply bounce off it. It was beautiful but alarming to see his confidence as he stood up in a shower of shells, praying for a chance of showing off the virtues of his acquisition.

We were very pleased to send to his hospital address to-day a postcard bearing the maker's explanation that a .45 revolver bullet, and not a 45 millimetre shell, was meant.

As regards the jam question, Jerry, the fault of the jam is that it is never jam, but always marmalade. I feel too sore on the question to write much, but I may just hint that we have heard that Brother Bulgar sometimes gets real strawberry. It is just possible, therefore, that you may hear of a raid soon.

THE CONVERT.

["One striking result of the War has been its humanising effect on woman."—Daily Paper.]