"Damn the man—what," cried the Major. "What's your rank? I said."
"What, sir?" respectfully inquired the Tommy, whose powers of apprehension had been disorganised by so sudden a raid.
The Major adopted two methods calculated to penetrate the soldier's intelligence: he leant over the rail, and he spoke very slowly.
"What's—your—bloody—rank? Are you a general, or a private?"
"No, sir," answered the bewildered Tommy.
"Oh, God damn you to hell! What's your rank?"
"Oh, private, sir."
"Then, for Christ's sake, go and do some work. What are privates for? Get that kit of mine from the quay."
The Major dropped his monocle on his chest, and looked down at us.
"Sorry, padre," he said, and walked away.