“Oh, chuck it,” said Peter, “I’m sick of Locksley.”
“So am I; so’s Fanshawe; so’s every decent chap in this show. If you two came into Mess a bit more often you’d know. But he’s gone too far this time.” The tone became shrill. “Too damn far altogether; and I’m going to have him out of this battalion or go myself. The man’s a blasted traitor. A traitor, I tell you.”
“Easy on, Bareton,” Bromley spoke very calmly. “You can’t make accusations like that about him.”
“I can. And I do. He said just now, over tea, right in front of everybody, that we should lose this war.”
“We probably shall,” put in Peter.
“It depends how these things are said. He meant it, I tell you. He meant it. And damn it, oh, damn it”—there were tears in the man’s eyes—“my governor was killed yesterday! Killed, I tell you. At Ypres. And all these bastards here can do is to talk about their bloody promotions. . . .”
Bromley got up; put his hand on Bareton’s shoulder. “I’m awfully sorry, old chap,” he said gruffly, “but your governor wouldn’t want you to lose your head, you know.”
The man pulled himself together with a huge effort; took a cigarette; puffed at it in silence. Came a knock on the door, and Fanshawe, tall, beetle-browed, obviously on the trail of his friend.
“Hallo, Fan,” said Peter.
“Hallo, P.J.” Then to Bareton, “Oh, here you are, are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come down town and have a drink.”