they expected that which arrived. Suddenly the British batteries spoke
out, and they all spoke together. In the space of four minutes they
deposited _thirty thousand_ high-explosive shells in the Boche
front-line trenches--yea, distributed the same accurately and evenly
along all that crowded arc. Then they paused, as suddenly as they
began, while British riflemen and machine-gunners bent to their work.

But few received the order to fire. Here and there a wave of men broke
over the German parapet and rolled towards the British lines--only to
be rolled back crumpled up by machine-guns. Never once was the goal
reached. The great Christmas attack was over. After months of weary
waiting and foolish recrimination, that exasperating race of bad
starters but great stayers, the British people, had delivered "the
goods," and made it possible for their soldiers to speak with the
enemy in the gate upon equal--nay, superior, terms.

"Is that all?" asked Bobby Little, peering out over the parapet, a
little awe-struck, at the devastation over the way.

"That is all," said Wagstaffe, "or I'm a Boche! There will be much
noise and some irregular scrapping for days, but the tin lid has been
placed upon the grand attack. The great Christmas Victory is off!"

Then he added, thoughtfully, referring apparently to the star
performer:--

"We _have_ been and spoiled his entrance for him, haven't we?"