driven out, bit by bit the battalion retired. O’Flannigan’s trench being at the end and more or less unconnected with the others, the Germans passed it by: though, as the sergeant in charge very rightly realised, it could only be a question of a very few minutes before it would be untenable.
“Get out,” he ordered, “and join up with the regiment in the trenches behind.”
“And phwat of the issue of rum?” demanded Michael O’Flannigan, whose rifle was too hot to hold.
“You may think yourself lucky, my bucko, if you ever get another,” said the sergeant. “Get out.” ••••• O’Flannigan looked at him. “If you’re after thinking that I would be leaving the rum to them swine you are mistaken, sergeant.”
“Are you going, O’Flannigan?”
“Bedad, I’m not! Not if the King himself was asking me.”
At that moment a Boche rounded the traverse. With a howl of joy O’Flannigan hit him with the butt of his rifle. From that moment he went mad. He hurled him-
