Early that afternoon I went to my dugout, and was just trying to get a little rest, when I was disturbed by a voice outside, which sounded strangely familiar.
"Sergeant, excuse me, but is this the beastly hole where B Company is to be found?"
"Yes, sir, this is B Company's line."
"'Pon me word, extraordinary place! Demned hot; walked nearly five miles. Where's the captain?"
"In his dugout, sir, near that shell-hole."
"I've got to report to him; will you tell him I'm here?"
"Hadn't you better go to him, sir?"
"Oh! Is that the thing to do?"
At that moment, unable to restrain my curiosity, I came out of my dugout, and there, sure enough, was none other than the irresistible pattern of Bond Street, Septimus D'Arcy, by all that was wonderful!
There he was, with his monocle riveted in his right eye, between the frown of his eyebrow and the chubby fatness of his cheek, with the bored expression of one who saw no reason for the necessity of the fatigue which caused the undignified beads of perspiration to assemble on an otherwise unruffled countenance. A pair of kid gloves, buttoned together, were hanging from the belt of his Sam Brown, and four inches of a blue-bordered silk handkerchief dangled from his sleeve. As he approached he half carried on his arm and half dragged along the ground, the burden that was known as his full marching order.