“Ah! monsieur,” they cried, “vous êtes du génie?” I assured them I was of the engineers. “Then come vite, s’il vous plait. We are of ze artillery, and ze Germans zey make une mine, n’est-ce-pas? We go up Pouff. Our guns zey go up Pouff—aussi.”
“Mining,” I cried, “the Germans mining here! Impossible, messieurs. Why, we’re a mile and a half behind the firing-line.” I regret to say I was a little peevish.
Nevertheless they assured me it was so—not once, but many times. Strange noises, they affirmed, were heard in the bowels of the earth near their battery—mysterious rumblings occurred; they continually assured me they were going Pouff!
I went to the Major. He was not in a good temper—he rarely is in the early morning—and the last blade of his safety razor was blunt.
“Mining here!” he barked. “What the deuce are they talking about? It’s probably nesting time for woodpeckers or something. Oh! yes—go away and see,” in reply to my question. “Anything to get those two embryo volcanoes off the premises: and don’t let ’em come back, for Heaven’s sake!
