Setley could feel his heart beating against his ribs as he waited. Being under shell fire for the first time was decidedly an uncanny sensation. Dimly he wondered if he would ever get used to it.

The second and third projectiles came almost simultaneously, one bursting a quarter of a mile away on the right, the other landing in an already ruined farm building on the outskirts of the village. Beams and masses of brick-bats were tossed sky-high like straws in a gale of wind, while some of the men felt certain that they saw portions of a field gun hurled upwards in the glare of the bursting shell.

"That's the lot," declared the sergeant coolly. "'Tain't like what it used to be. Fritz thinks twice about wasting heavy gun ammunition."

Silently the Tommies boarded the waiting buses. For the time being their natural hilarity was subdued by the unwonted display of war.

"Seeking a bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth,'" declared the ex-actor. "If it weren't for the fact that I've come a very long way to see the fun, I, like Pistol's boy, would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. What say you, Setley?"

Private Setley did not reply. Mentally he was comparing his present position with that of a few short months ago. Then he would have given almost anything to be "clear of the Bank." The long hours spent in making up the "half-yearly balance" were loathsome. It was a relief to be able to live an open-air life. Now he was about to realise the dreams of months—yet, somehow, he hardly relished those bursting shells. It was too one-sided to his liking—to be potted at from an unknown distance and be unable to lift so much as a little finger in self-defence.

"Wait till it comes to bayonet work," he mused. "Then our fellows will give the Huns a bit of a surprise."

The detachment was really good at bayonet practice. While attached to the Fifth Battalion at home the men had earned unstinted praise from super-critical instructors at the way in which they prodded the suspended sacks.

With a few exceptions all the men of No. 3 Platoon were either Derby men or conscripts. They all had good excuses—or they individually firmly imagined they had—why they should not "join up." It wasn't that they were not patriotic, yet circumstances urged them to hold back as long as possible. They groused while they awaited the long-deferred call. The uncertainty of the whole business was the worst part of it; but when they did 

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