Private William Thomson, however, had already started his
inevitable grumbling. There were eight in the compartment, and he
had stupidly omitted to secure a corner seat.
'I'll bet ye I'm a corp afore we get to Dover,' he bleated.
'That's as near as ever ye'll be to bein' a corporal,' remarked the
cheerful Jake. 'But hoo d'ye ken it'll be Dover?'
'I'll bet ye ---- Na! I'll no tak' on ony mair wagers. I've a
tremenjous bet on wi' this yin'--indicating Macgregor--'every
dashed penny I possess--that we're boun' for Flanders. He says the
Dardanelles.'
All excepting Macgregor fell to debating the question. He had just
remembered something he had forgotten to say to Christina; also, he
was going away without the ring she was to have given him. He was
not sorry he was going, but he felt sad. . . .
The debate waxed furious.
'I tell ye,' bawled Willie, 'we're for Flanders! The Ninth's been
there since the----'
A sudden silence! What the ---- was that? Surely not--ay, it
was!--an order to detrain!
And soon the whisper went round that they were not bound for
anywhere--unless the ---- old camp. The morning's alarm and all
that followed had been merely by way of practice.
At such a time different men have different feelings, or, at least,
different ways of expressing them. Jake laughed philosophically
and appeared to dismiss the whole affair. Willie swore with a
curious and seemingly unnecessary bitterness, at frequent
intervals, for the next hour or so.
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