And the god in charge paused for a moment, and wondered if it was worth while. . . .
CHAPTER XVII
"My hat!" remarked the Adjutant as Vane reported his return to the depot.
"Can this thing be true? Giving up leave. . . ."
Vane grinned, and seated himself on the edge of the table.
"'There are more things, Horatio,'" he quoted genially.
"For the love of Pete—not that hoary motto," groaned the other. "Want a job of work?"
"My hat!" laughed Vane. "Can this thing be true? Work at the depot?"
"Try my job," grunted Vallance. "Of all the bandy-legged crowd of C3 perishers I've ever seen, this crowd fills the bill. . . . Why one damn fellow who's helping in the cook-house—peeling potatoes—says it gives him pains in the stummick. . . . Work too hard. . . . And in civil life he was outside porter in a goods yard." He relapsed into gloomy silence.
"What about this job?" prompted Vane.
The Adjutant lit a cigarette. "I can easily send over a subaltern, if you like," he said; "but you might find it a good trip. It's a draft for the sixth battalion in Ireland; you'll have to cross and hand 'em over in Dublin."