right,” but inwardly he was thinking of these boys moving up through another barrage, and his mind was full of foreboding.
In the trench he found the other officers, and knew they were thinking the same.
“The old hands ought to help them on,” said his Captain doubtfully. “But I wish we hadn’t lost so many to-day. It’ll shake them a bit.”
“What is to-day?” said MacTaggart inconsequently. “Sunday, isn’t it?”
A voice from a private echoed his question a little way along. There was a buzz of conversation and suddenly a hush. The strong voice of a Sergeant was lifted up in the shaking lilt of an old Psalm tune.
“By God,” breathed the Subaltern, as the other voices joinedin. “They’re the old gang yet.”
And from the miry clay,
And on a rock he set my feet,
Establishing my way.
The Psalm ended; another voice said, “I’ll give you a grand one for this day, boy,” and once again the strong rough voices rang out through the wood, grim earnestness in every tone:
