completely over the hole. Now for the artistic touch. We took the ham
bone, fastened it with wire to the end of a stick that we nailed across
the top of the shack, with the end protruding well out to the side, and
on the end of the ham bone we hung a placard, so that all could see,
reading, "Here lies the remains of Hambone Davis. Gone but not
forgotten." Then we scampered over to one side and with the glee of
mischievous schoolboys watched developments. Nearly every passing
soldier, noticing the odd sight, strolled over and read the sign, going
off snickering.

The following evening Hambone arrived back from the guns; he had with
him some of the conspirators carrying wood that he wanted; it was the
first time they experienced real pleasure in that work because they
foresaw the dénouement in store.

When they reached the spot where his home had been, Hambone looked
around in a dazed sort of fashion, almost swallowing a mouthful of
tobacco juice as he blurted out, "Where the bloody 'ell is my 'ouse?
What bloody well nonsense is this? Hi'll make someone pay for this!" The
rest of us were loitering in the immediate vicinity, listening with
sheer chucklings to his burning vows, and it was all we could do to
stifle our laughter. Then Hambone ran around like a looney, looking here
and there for his house, and when he found it and saw the bone and read
the placard, his feelings were so intense that he actually spat out his
mouthful of tobacco, juice and all.

"'Ere, you lobsters! You, Grant, who has done this?"

"I don't know; how should I know?"