They sat at tea in the bare Mess-room—the Colonel, Purves, Doctor Carson, Morency, Peter. Outside, it darkled. Rain had begun to fall.
“What’s happened to your appetite, P.J.?” chaffed the jovial Irishman.
“Somehow, I don’t feel hungry, Doc,” said our Mr. Jameson.
PART FIFTEEN
FORWARD
§ 1
Day waned; died. Bombardier Michael came in; cleared away the tea-mugs. The telephone on the shelf buzzed impatiently. Purves went to it.
“It’s Torrington,” he announced, “and he wants to know if they’re to go on firing at the Pope’s Nose.”
“Tell him, yes,” said Stark, “till further orders.”
“Are we going to move out, sir?” asked Purves, coming back to the table. “My servant says he’s had orders to pack up my kit.”
“He has. My orders.” The tone of the Weasel’s voice stifled discussion. Again, the telephone buzzed.