“I tell ye I was there,” said the Cameron. “We were relievin’ the Black Watch, and Fritz was shelling the road, and we didna get up to the line till one o’clock in the mornin’. Frae Frickout Circus to the south end o’ the High Wood is every bit o’ five mile.”
“Not abune three,” said the sapper dogmatically.
“Man, I’ve trampit it.”
“Same here. I took up wire every nicht for a week.”
The Cameron looked moodily round the company. “I wish there was anither man here that kent the place. He wad bear me out. These boys are no good, for they didna join till later. I tell ye it’s five mile.”
“Three,” said the sapper.
Tempers were rising, for each of the disputants felt his veracity assailed. It was too hot for a quarrel and I was so drowsy that I was heedless.
“Shut up, you fools,” I said. “The distance is six kilometres, so you’re both wrong.”
My tone was so familiar to the men that it stopped the wrangle, but it was not the tone of a publisher’s traveller. Mr Linklater cocked his ears.
“What’s a kilometre, Mr McCaskie?” he asked blandly.