“What’s that?”
“We don’t look rough and blackguardly enough.”
“Oh, Ingle, I quite grasp it now!”
“I’ve been quite aware of that, old lad, for the last minute—that and something else. I don’t know what will have happened when the war is over, but at present I don’t wear a wooden leg. Oh, my knee! I didn’t think your fingers were made of bone.”
“I beg your pardon, old fellow!”
“Don’t name it, lad! I’m very glad you have so much energy in you, and proud of my powers of enduring such a vice-like—or say vicious—grip without holloaing out. Next time try your strength on Anson! Why, your fingers would almost go through his fat.”
“Ingle, we must try it to-night.”
“Or the first opportunity.”
“Why didn’t you think of that before we lost the despatch?”
“Hah! Why didn’t I? Suppose it didn’t come!”