"Cheer up, old son," Jim remarked, slapping the last-named worthy heavily on the back. "You look peevish."
"Confound you," he gasped, when he'd recovered from choking. "This is my last bottle of whisky."
"Where's the battalion?" laughed Denver.
"Where d'you think? In a Turkish bath surrounded by beauteous houris?" the quartermaster snorted. "Still in the same damn mud-hole near Hooge."
"Good! I'll trot along up shortly. You know, I'm beginning to be glad I came back. I didn't want to particularly, at first: I was enjoying myself at home—but I felt I ought to, and now—'pon my soul—— How are you, Jones?"
A passing sergeant stopped and saluted. "Grand, sir. How's yourself? The boys will be glad you've come back."
Denver stood chatting with him for a few moments and then rejoined the pessimistic quartermaster.
"Don't rhapsodise," begged that worthy—"don't rhapsodise; eat your lunch. If you tell me it will be good to see your men again, I shall assault you with the remnants of the tinned lobster. I know it will be good—no less than fifteen officers have told me so in the last six weeks. But I don't care—it leaves me quite, quite cold. If you're in France, you pine for England; when you're in England, you pine for France; and I sit in this damn field and get giddy."
Which might be described as to-day's great thought.