"Well, sir, if we'd come by the way I----"
Ayling took a deep breath, and though conscious of the presence of
formidable competitors, was about to make the best of an officer's
vocabulary, when a kilted figure loomed out of the darkness.
"Hallo! Who are you?" inquired Ayling.
"This iss the Camerons' trenches, sirr," replied a polite West Highland
voice. "What trenches wass you seeking?"
Ayeling told him.
"They are behind you, sirr."
"I was just goin' to say, sir," chanted the guide, making one last
effort to redeem his prestige, "as 'ow----"
"Party," commanded Ayling, "about turn!"
Having received details of the route from the friendly Cameron, he
scrambled out of the trench and crawled along to what was now the head
of the procession. A plaintive voice followed him.
"Beg pardon, sir, where shall _I_ go now?"
Ayling answered the question explicitly, and moved off, feeling much
better. The late conductor of the party trailed disconsolately in the
rear.
"I should like to know wot I'm 'ere for," he murmured indignantly.
He got his answer, like a lightning-flash.
"For tae carry _this_," said the man with the tripod, turning round.
"Here, caatch!"