“Oh, we all know you’re the only chap in the Brigade with good hands,” put in Archdale—a fair-haired boy of eighteen—maliciously.
“You shut up, Brat. You can’t ride anyway. . . .”
“Who is P.J.?” asked Merrilees, a solemn young man of twenty-six, with eyes like an owl and the shoulders of a student, who had been transferred from Colonel Brasenose’s Brigade (the 3rd Southdown) that afternoon.
“Do you mean to say,” chuckled Pettigrew, “that you’ve never heard of our Mr. Jameson? Our Mr. Jameson,” he cocked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth—a very tolerable imitation of Peter’s mannerism—“the Captain Kettle of the 4th Brigade. Our Mr. Jameson is some gunner, I can assure you.”
“Really.” Merrilees had no sense of humour.
“Also,” went on Pettigrew, “our Mr. Jameson has a car—some car! And a wife—some wife.”
“Brat” Archdale, who had developed a violent attack of calf-love for Patricia, blushed violently.
“I like P.J.,” remarked Hutchinson, pouring himself a second glass of port.
“So do I,” said Pettigrew, “but he’s a quaint bird.”
“Who’s a quaint bird?” Purves poked a wonderfully brushed brown head round the door; drew his long body after it; sat down to the table.