He set out
as soon as darkness fell, taking with him a biscuit-tin full of water.
A circular from Headquarters--one of those circulars which no one but
Othello would have treated with proper reverence--had suggested this
device. The idea was that, since liquids convey sound better than air,
the listener should place his tin of water on the ground, lie down
beside it, immerse one ear therein, and so draw secrets from the
earth. Othello failed to locate the mine, but kept his head in the
biscuit-tin long enough to contract a severe attack of earache.
But he is not discouraged. At present he is meditating a design for
painting himself grass-green and climbing a tree--thence to take a
comprehensive and unobserved survey of the enemy's dispositions. He
will do it, too, if he gets a chance!
The machine-gunners, also, contrive to chase monotony by methods
of their own. Listen to Ayling, concocting his diurnal scheme
of frightfulness with a colleague. Unrolled upon his knee is a
large-scale map.
"I think we might touch up those cross-roads to-night," he says,
laying the point of his dividers upon a spot situated some hundreds of
yards in rear of the German trenches.
"I expect they'll have lots of transport there about ration-time--eh?"
"Sound scheme," assents his coadjutor, a bloodthirsty stripling named
Ainslie. "Got the bearings?"
"Hand me that protractor.
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