time ago, y'know — playin' their little tricks with gas an' tear-shells an' liquid fire an' that, and we left 'em to it. Y'see, it wasn't cricket — wasn't playin' the game — what! But Fritz kept at it and was happy as a bird, till one day we woke up an' started bein' frightful too, only when we did begin we were frightfuller than ever Fritz thought of bein' — yes, rather! Our gas is more deadly, our lachrymatory shells — are more lachrymose an' our liquid fire's quite tophole — won't go out till it burns out — rather not! So Frightful Fritz is licked at his own dirty game. I've tried his and I've tried ours, an' I know."
Here the sergeant murmured deferentially into the sub.'s ear, whereupon he beamed again and nodded.
"Everything's quite ready!" he announced, "so if you're on?"
Here, after a momentary hesitation, I signified I was, whereupon our sub. grew immensely busy testing sundry ugly, grey flannel gas helmets, fitted with staring eye-pieces of talc and with a hideous snout in front.