“Well,” announced the taxi-driver, with the air of a man who has been awarded a walk-over, “I’m fifty-seven. Any sons?”
“Two.”
“Two? Well, I got two too—one in the East Surreys and the other in the Tanks. (’E was a machine-gunner in the first place.) Both bin in the War four years. Both bin wounded. What are yours in? The Circumloosion Office, or the Conchies’ Battalion?”[2]
“One is in the Coldstream Guards. The other was a Gunner, but he was killed.”
The cabman became human at once.
“I’m sorry for that—sir! May I ask where?”
“First Battle of Ypres.”
“Epray? That was where our Bert stopped his first one.”
“I have a son too,” interpolated the Special eagerly—“in the—”
But no one took any notice of him. The cabman and the old gentleman had entirely forgotten the existence of the rest of the party.