And as we splashed down the street we had a little adventure of the kind that had probably occurred to more than one set of land girls.
A group of lads who encountered us began to laugh and jeer at our uniform—they themselves were in "civvies," mackintosh and caps. Farmers' lads from remote places in the mountains!
I don't know what they said, but from the tone it was obviously not complimentary.
So feeling that blank discomfort which falls upon the average girl at any man's incivility, I found myself clutching Peggy's arm in order to hurry past, and saying hastily: "Come on, Vic——"
But Vic, to my horror, had paused.
She left my side. She took a step towards the nearest of the lads, a rosy-faced nineteen-year-old with a ragged thatch of black hair showing under his bowler hat. There she stood, firmly planted on the streaming road, handsome head well up in the rain, figure held proudly erect, and she demanded in a voice that rang:
"What's that you're saying about us?" A sheepish giggle from the group; not one of the boys spoke.
"You were saying we ought to be ashamed of ourselves, wasn't it? Something like that, eh? That's what you think of us, is it?" Vic went on.
"I'd like just to tell you what we Land Army girls think of you!" Vic announced. "And that is, that it's you who ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Huh! Why aren't you in France? Can't leave the farm, you can't. You're sheltering yourselves behind the land, you are. You ought to be standing shoulder to shoulder with the rest o' the Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
"You've got regiments. Nobody can say they don't fight all right. Yet here you are at home. Exemption, eh? Indispensables—I don't think. Who's to milk father's cows? Well, we've volunteered to do that. That's what we're here for. That's why you can't bear to see us about the place. You're afraid——"