into a system of canals filled with a substance varying in consistency from
coffee to glue. Hic, Haec and Hoc, owing to the wear and tear of constant
traffic, became especially gluey, and after a time we rechristened them
respectively the Great Ooze, the Little Ooze and the River Styx--the last
not solely in reference to its adhesive qualities, but also because such a
number of things went West in it. Some time after the original duck-boards
had sunk out of our depth we could still move along Styx on a solid bottom
composed of lost gum-boots, abandoned rations and the like. At last, when
Frankie, struggling up to the line with the rum ration, was forced to dump
his precious burden in order to save his life, we pronounced Styx
impassable and thenceforth proceeded along the top after dusk.

The Great Ooze still remained just possible for those whose business took
them back and forward during the day, but even here were spots in which it
was worse than unwise to linger. As I squelched painfully through one of
these on our last day in the line, I found one Private Harrison firmly
embedded to the top of his thigh-boots. He told me he had been struggling
vainly for about an hour.

"Give me your hands," I said.

I tugged, but could get no proper purchase. Harrison grew gradually black
in the face, but remained immovable. I tried another plan. I turned about,
and Harrison clasped his hands round my neck. Then I walked away.... At
least that was the idea.

"Harrison," I said anxiously after a determined struggle, "were you
standing on the duckboards?"

"Yes, Sir. I still am."