efficiency and enthusiasm at every pore, has made his fellow-officers
positively dislike him.

For, alas, he is one of those dear overzealous fellows whom in moments
of depression we stigmatise as "hearty." He has even been known to
be hearty at breakfast; to come trampling into the dug-out with that
blinking old smile on his face, expressing immense satisfaction with
life in general at the top of a peculiarly robust voice; to tread on
his captain's toes and slap his next-door neighbour heartily on the
back, and then to explain to a swearing and choking audience how
splendidly he has slept, and what a topping day it is going to be.

Never has Gilbert been known to spend a bad night; he is one of those
fortunate animals who can go to sleep standing and at five minutes'
notice, and start snoring at once. If you try to sleep anywhere near
him, you dream of finding yourself in Covent Garden station, trying to
board endless trains which roar through without stopping--that's the
kind of snore it is.

And now it is time I told my story.

It happened many years ago, when the War was young and the Bosch
comparatively aggressive; when our big guns fired once every other
Sunday and we lived precarious lives in holes in the ground. Our
Brigadier, a conscientious soldier of the old school, was dodging
round our line of trenches, and had just reached the sector allotted
to my company, which was also Gilbert's, when the distant buzz that
generally means an aeroplane overhead made itself distinctly heard.

"Can you spot him?" said the General to his Brigade-major; "one of