“Well, yes, sir, at Ypres we lost eighteen of our officers; oh, it was a cruel bad mix-up. Still and all, the Boches were given their tea in a mug! After our last charge ye’d see thim going every way—like crows in a storm! Our guns are grand; as for them aeroplanes they do all but speak; and the Tanks are wonders, God bless them!”
“You have been wounded?”
“Only just a cat’s scratch—the German wire is mighty stiff; and there’s six-inch spikes. Well, since we were last together, sir, you and I have been through a strange time and seen sights as we can’t talk about. One thing is sure, we’ll worry through all right.”
“Oh, yes, we shall, and give the Boches something to think about.”
The sudden opening of a distant door released a roar of voices singing, “Take me back to Blighty!” a rousing demand which instantly recalled the sergeant-major to his duty.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I must be moving; so I’ll wish you good-bye, and the best of luck.”
“The same to you, Ryan. You’ll let us have a line to say how you get on, won’t you?”
Shafto held out his hand; Ryan gave it a hard, convulsive squeeze, and in another moment the stalwart Irishman had saluted and tramped forth.
“An old friend, I see,” remarked Tremenheere.
“Yes, I knew him in Burma.”