"Good shot, by Jove!" he yelled. "A perfect beauty! Holed out in one!"

I turned to see what had caused his sudden joy. But where was my
little 'ouse? Had _it_ suddenly turned into that nasty cloud of dust?
Even as I looked my water-bucket reached the ground again.

"Awfully sorry, old man," said the Major, with a ghastly, pretence of
sympathy. "You see it was in our way."

I brushed aside his proffered hand (rather good that, Jerry. Let's
have it again. I say I brushed aside his proffered hand), and strode
back dismally to what had once been my home from home.

Now I live in a little dug-out beneath the ground, chickenless and
mangel-wurzelless, awaiting with resignation the day when the Sappers
shall find that I am in _their_ way and blow me up.

Another little game of the gunners is called "Artillery Duels."

In the good old days, when a man wanted a scrap with his neighbour, he
put a double charge of powder into his blunderbuss, crammed in on
top of it two horse-shoes, his latch-key, an old watch-chain, and a
magnet, and then started on the trail. It was very effective, but of
course some busy-body "improved" on it. Nowadays our gunners ring up
the enemy's artillery.

"Hallo! Is that you, strafe you? What about an artillery duel, eh?"

"Oh, what fun!" says the enemy. "Do let's." And then they start.