The enormous and imponderable world awfully unbalanced. Upside down. Extraordinarily unreal. Furiously real.
Life, which had been a thing of the clock and of the calendar, became a thing of events in which there was no time,—only events.
Things began one day very shortly after the declaration of war when, passing the barracks on his way home, Sabre was accosted and taken into the Mess by Cottar, a subaltern of the Pinks.
"You must come along in and have a cup of tea," young Cottar urged. "We've got a hell of a jamborino on. At least we shall have to-night. We're just working up for it. I can't tell you why. You can guess."
Sabre felt a sudden catch at his emotions. "Is the regiment going?"
They were at the door of the anteroom. Cottar swung it open. The room was full of men and tobacco smoke and noise. A very tall youth, one Sikes, was standing on the table, a glass in his hand. "Hullo, Sabre! Messman, one of those very stiff whiskies for Mr. Sabre—go on, Sabre, you must. Because—" He had not Cottar's reticence. He burst into song, waving his glass—"Because—
"We shan't be here in the morning—"
They all took it up, bawling uproariously:
We shan't be here in the morning,
We shan't be here in the morning,
We shan't be here in the mor-or-ning,
Before the break of day!
Otway came in. "Shut up, you noisy young fools. What the—"