He threw back his head, displaying the muscular great throat above his collar, and laughed like a mischievous boy.
"Good luck!" he said.
"Good hunting!" replied the Volunteer.
He turned to the Midshipman. "Come along, sonny, shake the sleep out of your eyes and go and collect our little party."
Outside in the snowy darkness the great concourse of men was being mustered: lanterns gleamed on wet oilskins and men's faces. Hoarse voices and the tramp of heavy boots through the slush heralded the passage along the platform of each draft as they were marched to the barrier. A cold wind cut through the cheerless night like a knife.
Armitage paused for a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness.
"Here we are, Mouldy," said a clear-cut, well-bred voice out of the darkness surrounding a pile of luggage. "Here's our stuff. Get a truck, old thing!"
Armitage turned in the direction of the voice: as he did so a passing lantern flashed on the face of a Lieutenant stooping over some portmanteaux.
"I thought as much," he said. "Thought I recognised the voice." He stepped towards the speaker and rested his hand on his shoulder. "James Thorogood, isn't it?" he said.
The other straightened up and peered through the darkness at the face of the Volunteer Lieutenant. "Yes," he replied, "but it's devilish dark—I can't——"