controversial plane met with no encouragement. Private Buncle,
refusing to be appeased, replied sarcastically--

"Aye, is it? And it was a fine nicht last nicht, especially when the
shellin' was gaun on! Especially in number seeven dug-oot!"

There was a short silence. Number seven dug-out was no more, and five
of its late occupants were now lying under their waterproof sheets,
not a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre. Presently, however,
the pacific Cosh, who in his hours of leisure was addicted to mild
philosophical rumination, gave a fresh turn to the conversation.

"Mphm!" he observed thoughtfully. "They say that in a war every man
has a bullet waiting for him some place or other, with his name on
it! Sooner or later, he gets it. Aye! Mphm!" He sucked his teeth
reflectively, and glanced towards the Field Ambulance. "Sooner or
later!"

"What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?" inquired Nigg, who was
not very quick at grasping allusions.

"He wouldna pit on the name himself," explained the philosopher.
"What I mean is, there's a bullet for each one of us somewhere over
there"--he jerked his head eastward--"in a Gairman pooch."

"What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?" demanded Nigg
triumphantly. "He doesna ken it!"

"Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, "can ye
no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'?