Everybody laughed.
Said Colonel Stark: “If you ex-civilians had been willing to pay for a decent-sized Army in peace-time, you might have had officers capable of managing large bodies of troops in war.”
“Then you admit, Colonel” . . . began Lodden.
“My dear Major, I admit nothing. Let’s have some port. Any coffee, Morency?”
“Mais oui, mon Colonel.”
Peter produced a newly arrived box of cigars; the bare room soon grew hazy with smoke. The gaffer and Caroline, dragging a scrofulous boy by the hand, dived down through the timbered doorway to their bedroom in the cellars. Outside, it was very still—only, every now and then, a gun boomed faintly.
Torrington had drawn his chair towards the two cousins; Purves joined them, and Morency. Stark, Lodden and the Doctor kept to the head of the table.
“Damn good fighter, the Boche,” remarked Torrington, á propos of nothing in particular.
“Damned swines!” The remark seemed to burst from Francis’ lips. “If you knew as much about them as I do. . . .”
“What do you know about them, young man?” put in the Weasel from the head of the table.