Thirdly, the Buzzer is a humourist, of the sardonic variety. The
constant clash of wits over the wires, and the necessity of framing
words quickly, sharpens his faculties and acidulates his tongue.
Incidentally, he is an awkward person to quarrel with. One black
night, Bobby Little, making his second round of the trenches about an
hour before "stand-to," felt constrained to send a telephone message
to Battalion Headquarters. Taking a good breath,--you always do this
before entering a trench dug-out,--he plunged into the noisome cavern
where his Company Signallers kept everlasting vigil. The place was in
total darkness, except for the illumination supplied by a strip of
rifle-rag burning in a tin of rifle-oil. The air, what there was of
it, was thick with large, fat, floating particles of free carbon.
The telephone was buzzing plaintively to itself, in unsuccessful
competition with a well-modulated quartette for four nasal organs,
contributed by Bobby's entire signalling staff, who, locked in the
inextricable embrace peculiar to Thomas Atkins in search of warmth,
were snoring harmoniously upon the earthen floor.

The signaller "on duty"--one M'Gurk--was extracted from the heap and
put under arrest for sleeping at his post. The enormity of his crime
was heightened by the fact that two undelivered messages were found
upon his person.

Divers pains and penalties followed. Bobby supplemented the sentence
with a homily on the importance of vigilance and despatch. M'Gurk,
deeply aggrieved at forfeiting seven days' pay, said nothing, but
bided his time. Two nights later the Battalion came out of trenches
for a week's rest, and Bobby, weary and thankful, retired to bed in
his hut at 9 P.M., in comfortable anticipation of a full night's
repose.