Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from Battalion Headquarters to
take general charge of affairs in the firing-trench, buttoned the
bottom edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clambered up on
the firing-step to take stock of the position. He crouched low, for a
terrific bombardment was in progress, and shells were almost grazing
the parapet.

Presently he was joined by a slim young officer similarly disguised.
It was the Commander of "A" Company. Wagstaffe placed his head close
to Bobby's left ear, and shouted through the cloth--

"We shan't feel this gas much. They're letting it off higher up the
line. Look!"

Bobby, laboriously inhaling the tainted air inside his helmet,--being
preserved from a gas attack is only one degree less unpleasant than
being gassed,--turned his goggles northward.

In the dim light of the breaking day he could discern a
greenish-yellow cloud rolling across from the Boche trenches on his
left.

"Will they attack?" he bellowed.

Wagstaffe nodded his head, and then cautiously unbuttoned his collar
and rolled up the front of his helmet. Then, after delicately sampling
the atmosphere by a cautious sniff, he removed his helmet altogether.
Bobby followed his example. The air was not by any means so pure as
might have been desired, but it was infinitely preferable to that