All went well until one night when friend Fritz changed his
habits and put some assorted fireworks rather near the mules.
Now the transport, being human and moreover unaccustomed to fireworks,
disliked this entertainment. Therefore they sought what shelter they
could. In a few minutes the Hun repented, but no mules and no rations
could the transport see. Moreover it began to rain. So back they went
and spoke at great length of the hundreds of seventeen-inch which had
blown up all the mules.
The morning began to come and a machine-gun subaltern, looking at a
black East in search of daylight, so that he might say, "It is now
light; I may go to bed," was somewhat startled. "For," he said, "I have
received shocks as the result of too much whisky of old, but from a
split tea and chloride of lime--no! It must be the pork and beans."
However, he collected eight puzzled but peaceful mules and handed them
to a still more bewildered adjutant, who knew not if they were "trench
stores" or "articles to be returned to salvage."
In the meanwhile the Transport Officer was making inquiries, and he
recovered the eight mules. "All," he said, "are back, except Ermyntrude.
I grieve for Ermyntrude, but still more for my driver's fate."
Where Ermyntrude spent the day no one knows. All that is known is of her
conduct the next night.
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