"At Givenchy I see one of 'em cut in 'alf by a 'Crump,'" muttered a little dark-haired man, with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to blink automatically. "It wasn't 'alf a sight, neither," he added.
"Who's goin' to stoke?" demanded Barnes, rubbing his chin affectionately with the pad of his right thumb.
"'Im wot's been the wickedest," suggested Bindle.
They were in no mood for lightness, however. None had yet breakfasted, and all had suffered the acute inconvenience of camping under the supreme direction of a benign but misguided cleric.
"Wot the 'ell I come 'ere for, I don't know," said a man with a moist, dirty face. "Might a gone to Southend with my brother-in-law, I might," he added reminiscently.
"You wasn't 'alf a mug, was you?" remarked a wiry little man in a singlet and khaki trousers.
"You're right there, mate," was the response. "Blinkin' barmy I must a' been."
"I was goin' to Yarmouth," confided a third, "only my missis got this ruddy camp on the streamin' brain. Jawed about it till I was sick and give in for peace an' quietness. Now, look at me."
"It's all the ruddy Government, a-startin' these 'ere stutterin' camps," complained a red-headed man with the face of a Bolshevist.
"They 'as races at Yarmouth, too," grumbled the previous speaker.