The King's Messenger locked the door after their departure and got into pyjamas. For a long time he sat cross-legged on his bunk, nursing his maimed limb and staring into vacancy as the express roared on through the night. Finally, as if he had arrived at some conclusion, he shook his head rather sadly, turned in, and switched out the light.
"Good lad, Podgie," observed Thorogood reflectively to his companion, as he proceeded to undress.
Mouldy Jakes, energetically brushing his teeth over the tiny washing-basin, grunted assent.
"Ever met my cousin Cecily?" pursued Thorogood. "No, I don't think you did: she was at school when we stayed with Uncle Bill before the war."
"Shouldn't remember her if I had," mumbled the gallant.
"She's Uncle Bill's ward, and by way of being rather fond of Podgie, I fancy—at least, she used to be, I know. But the silly old ass won't go near her since he lost his foot."
Mouldy Jakes dried his tooth-brush, and, fumbling in his trouser pocket, produced a penny.
"Heads or tails?" he queried.
"Tails—why?"
"It's a head. Bags I the lower berth."