at the sides push back into the earth by slow degrees.

It is a company of Territorials, deputed to our sector for the
fortification of the second line and the upkeep of its communication
trenches. They come into view--miserable bundles of implements, and
dragging their feet.

We watch them, one by one, as they come up, pass, and disappear.
They are stunted and elderly, with dusty faces, or big and
broken-winded, tightly enfolded in greatcoats stained and over-worn,
that yawn at the toothless gaps where the buttons are missing.

Tirette and Barque, the twin wags, leaning close together against
the wall, stare at them, at first in silence. Then they begin to
smile.

"March past of the Broom Brigade," says Tirette.

"We'll have a bit of fun for three minutes," announces Barque.

Some of the old toilers are comical. This one whom the file brings
up has bottle-shaped shoulders. Although extremely narrow-chested
and spindle-shanked, he is big-bellied. He is too much for Barque.
"Hullo, Sir Canteen!" he says.

When a more outrageously patched-up greatcoat appears than all the
others can show, Tirette questions the veteran recruit. "Hey, Father
Samples! Hey, you there!" he insists.

The other turns and looks at him, open-mouthed.