of the road; the ration party was, I believe, in the ditch upon the
left; and a strangled voice exclaimed after each burst, "Oh crummy! I
do 'ope they don't 'it the onions."

We gave our forty-seventh impersonation of a pair of starfish, and
then legged it for the apparent shelter of the houses. At least I
did; the salvage man, less squeamish, found a haven in an adjacent
cookhouse grease-trap and dust-shoot. I listened intently, but it was
only the falling of spent shrapnel, not the patter of Dustbin's baby
but quite enormous feet. A stove-pipe belching smoke and savoury fumes
protruded itself through the pavement on my right. Through the chinks
in the gaping slabs there came the ruddy flicker that bespoke a "home
from home" beneath my feet; and then, still listening for signs of
Dustbin, I heard--

"Didn't I tell you, Erb, to stop up that extra ventilation 'ole with
somethin'?--and now look wot's blown in. 'Ere, steady on, ole man;
that's got to last four men for three days."

"Well, I'm ----," chimed in another voice, "if the bloomin' tin ain't
empty. Why, I only just opened it--that's a 'ole Maconochie 'e's got
inside 'im, not countin' wot you've just.... Poor little beggar must
be starvin'. You're welcome to stop and share our grub, young feller,
but I've got to go on p'rade wiv that--that's a belt, that is...."

I turned towards the dimly lighted road that led to ---- [Censored].
Dustbin had found a home.

* * * * *