"I had not finished. If I had finished, I should have informed you of the fact, and would have said' Good-night!'"
"How does one choke off a tripe-merchant of this type?" wondered the exhausted officer.
From the bowels of the earth came the answer to his unspoken question—delivered in a strong Paisley accent—
"For Goad's sake, kiss him, and say 'Good-Nicht,' and hae done with it!"
As already stated, Private Wamphray was returned to his platoon next morning.
IV
But to regard the Buzzer simply and solely as a troglodyte, of sedentary habits and caustic temperament, is not merely hopelessly wrong: it is grossly unjust. Sometimes he goes for a walk—under some such circumstances as the following.
The night is as black as Tartarus, and it is raining heavily. Brother Boche, a prey to nervous qualms, is keeping his courage up by distributing shrapnel along our communication-trenches. Signal-wires are peculiarly vulnerable to shrapnel. Consequently no one in the Battalion Signal Station is particularly surprised when the line to "Akk" Company suddenly ceases to perform its functions.
Signal-Sergeant M'Micking tests the instrument, glances over his shoulder, and observes,—
"Line BX is gone, some place or other. Away you, Duncan, and sorrt it!"