“Yes,” I said.
“It really seems rather a sweat....”
“Old man,” I said sternly, “I’ve paid that corporal five francs, and on my mother’s side I’m Scots.”
And we returned to our attack on the omelette.
Half an hour passed, and the world of languor grew even fairer. Effort then appeared almost criminal. Surely the supreme delight of life lay in this slow puffing at a cigarette. The idea of our all-night journey became increasingly abhorrent.
“Archie,” I said, “do you think we shall be able to get any sleep in this train?”
“We shall be too cold. You know what a French train is?”
And again there was a silence. By this time we had reached the coffee stage. In about half an hour we should have to go. There would be a longish walk back to our billets, then we should have to pack and lug our bags all the way down to the station. It really didn’t seem worth while....
“Look here,” I said, “we shall only gain five days by this, and I’m jolly sleepy....”
“And if it’s your Scots blood that is troubling you,” my companion burst out, “I’ll pay you the damned five francs now, and with interest.”