“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” said Digby.
“There’s a drip coming through the roof just there which will get you on the back of the neck every time you lean forward.”
Miss Willmot shifted the biscuit-tin. It was not easy to find a spot to put it. The roof of the kitchen leaked badly in several places.
“Look here, Miss Willmot,” said Digby. “I wonder if you could do anything about this. I’ve just been round to the guard-room. There’s a poor devil there——”
“Language! language!” said Miss Nelly.
She was on her knees beside the stove rescuing her plate of toast from danger. Drops of water were falling on it from the knees of Digby’s breeches every time he moved.
“There is,” said Digby, speaking with great precision, “an unfortunate man at this moment incarcerated in the cell behind the guard-room, under the stern keeping of the Provost Sergeant. I hope that way of saying it satisfies you, Miss Davis.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t talk Camp shop,” said Miss Davis. “Let’s have our tea in peace.”
“Drink, I suppose,” said Miss Willmot “Why will they do it, just at Christmas, too?”
“This isn’t a drunk,” said Digby. “The wretched devil has been sent down here under arrest from No. 73 Hospital. He’s to be court-martialled. He’s only a boy, and a decent-looking boy, too. I hate to think of his being shut up in that cell all by himself at Christmas with nobody to do anything for him.”