Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce attack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The cause of the war and the prospect of its finish.
"Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when his ginger ale had ceased to erupt its displeasure at being released from the bottle.
"And here's to an early blighty wound," said Collins.
"Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget it?"
The conversation was bursting out afresh, and fortunately did not drift into politics or religion; and arguments easily turned to jokes, and jokes into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham.
There are some men who can argue best when armed with a knife and fork, and a good meal indisputably in their possession. There are others whose oratorical powers show greater promise when liquid refreshment is within easy grasp. In others yet again, the soothing influence of the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. And before we arrived at Southampton town station the gift of each had full play.
We soon found ourselves scrambling amongst the heap of luggage which had been thrown in confusion on to the platform, and commenced an anxious search for our kits.
It is always the same at English railway stations, and our cousins from America and Canada scorn our system, or rather lack of system, for those who travel with baggage in England have always the possibility in front of them of a free fight to regain their possessions.
There seems to be only one thing to do if you are going to travel with a trunk, and that is either to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it will stand out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap of baggage thrown topsyturvy out of the wagon on arrival at a terminus. Or, if not provided with this forethought of imagination, it is best to arrive at the starting station some hours ahead of time, and sit down on the platform and study the peculiarities of your trunk, its indentations and scratchings, and other characteristics, and committing all these details securely to your memory, so that when you arrive at the other end, and you jostle among the crowd gathered around the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a porter and frantically shout: "There it is!" as it tumbles out of the wagon, to be finally submerged at the extreme bottom of the heap.
Unfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly the same. It is true you have your name painted on the outside, but so has everybody, and when fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all look exactly alike.