“Oh! yes,” I answered. “Rather. I’ll send a note.”
As I was writing a rather elaborate note (having nothing better to do) requesting the pleasure of the distinguished presence of the medical officer, the man who had been to Bray for coal came and reported a fruitless errand. He seemed very depressed at his failure, but cheered up when we gave him a tot of rum to warm him up. (All rum, by the way, is kept in the company officer’s dug-out; it is the only way.)
Meanwhile, the problem of fuel must be faced. A log was crackling away merrily enough, but it was the very last. Something must be done.
“Davies,” I called out.
“Sir?” came back in that higher key of his.
He appeared at the door.
“Are you going down for rations?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, look here. There’s a sack of coal ordered from Sergeant Johnson, but I’m none too sure it’ll come up to-night. I only ordered it yesterday. But I want you to make sure you get it if it is there; in fact you must bring it, whether it’s there or not. See? If you don’t, you’ll be for it.”
This threat Davies took for what it was worth. But he answered: