It was a sergeant who first gave a choking cry and fainted; he was nearest the hole.
"Yes," remarked Jim, "he's found the urn."
With frozen stares they watched the last of twelve dozen of light beer go into the doctor's cart. With pallid lips the officer saw three dozen of good champagne snatched from under his nose.
"Heavens! man," he croaked, "it was dry too. If our trench had been a yard that way...." He leant heavily on his stick, and groaned.
The moment was undoubtedly pregnant with emotion.
"'E'ad a nasty face, that man—a nasty face. Oh, 'orrible."
Hushed voices came from the group of leaners. The "reproduction" depicts the psychological moment when the doctor with a joyous wave of the hand wished them "Bonjour, messieurs," and drove off.
"Not one—not one ruddy bottle—not the smell of a perishing cork. Stung!"
But Jim had left.
Which very silly and frivolous story is topsy-turvy land up to date, or at any rate typical of a large bit of it.