comparatively warm. Hans closes his eyes for a moment, and heaves a
gentle sigh.

Next moment there comes a rush of feet in the darkness, followed by a
metallic clang, as of hobnailed boots on metal. Hans, lying prostrate
and half-stunned beneath the galvanised iron sheeting, which,
dislodged from its former position by the impact of a heavy body
descending from above, now forms part of the flooring of the trench,
is suddenly aware that this same trench is full of men--rough,
uncultured men, clad in short petticoats and the skins of wild
animals, and armed with knobkerries. The Flying Matinée has begun, and
Hans Dumpkopf has got in by the early door.

Each of the performers--there are fifty of them all told--has his part
to play, and plays it with commendable aplomb. One, having disarmed
an unresisting prisoner, assists him over the parapet and escorts him
affectionately to his new home. Another clubs a recalcitrant foeman
over the head with a knobkerry, and having thus reduced him to a more
amenable frame of mind, hoists him over the parapet and drags him
after his "kamarad."

Other parties are told off to deal with the dug-outs. As a rule, the
occupants of these are too dazed to make any resistance,--to be quite
frank, the individual Boche in these days seems rather to welcome
captivity than otherwise,--and presently more of the "bag" are on
their way to the British lines.

But by this time the performance is drawing to a close. The alarm
has been communicated to the adjacent sections of the trench, and
preparations for the ejection of the intruders are being hurried