The chances seemed a hundred to one against her
arrival in the particular trench, honored by the presence of the
Strangers, but John felt that in reality they were a hundred to one in
favor of it. He wished it so earnestly that it must come true.
"You're smiling, Scott," said Carstairs. "A good honest English penny
for your thoughts."
"What do I care for money? What could I do with it if I had it, held
here between walls of mud only four feet apart?"
"At least," interrupted Wharton, "the high cost of living is not
troubling us. Next month's rent may come from where it pleases. It
doesn't bother me."
A messenger turned the angle of the trench and summoned John to the
presence of his commander, Captain Colton, who was about three hundred
yards away. Young Scott, stooping in order to keep his head covered
well, started down the trench. The artillery fire was at its height. The
waves of air followed one another with great violence, and the fumes of
picric acid and of other acids that he did not know became very strong.
But he scarcely noticed it. The bombardment was all in the day's work,
and when the Germans ceased, the French, after a decent interval, would
begin their own cannonade, carried on at equal length.
John thought little of the fire of the guns, now almost a regular affair
like the striking of a clock, but force of habit kept his head down and
no German sharpshooter watching in the trench opposite had a chance at
him.
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