And now, when we have got the blues, he refuses to open it. And, my word, our blues are of a true blue, a Conservative blue. Not the light blue of Cambridge, but the dark blue of Oxford. We have even blue blood in our veins, and call the Germans Blue-beards. If we were to take any pills, they would be blue pills. Our flag could be the Blue Peter. And we have such a blue funk, lest this confounded rain should never cease, that we talk of our blues till we get blue in the face. Not even Guncotton, who is very skilled in pyrotechnics and has manufactured a sort of little cartridge with which he cleverly imitates Will-o'-the-wisps, is able to enliven us. The daily display of pyrotechnics of a somewhat more awe-inspiring sort has rendered us positively cloyed with that pleasure.
But Pringle, since Charlie's refusal to open his bottle, has remained dreaming. Finally he steals away. We wait five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour. In the end he comes back holding a shell in his arms. It is about four inches in diameter and twelve in length. He settles down and slowly starts unscrewing the fuse.
"Look out," warns Guncotton. "These things explode sometimes...."
"That's just what I want," declares Pringle tragically. "I want to put an end to all this misery of ours."
Then, when the shell is unscrewed, he passes it to the Sergeant.
"Have a drop?" he asks.
The shell goes round.
"Our blues turn pink," says I.
"Like litmus paper under the influence of an acid," explains Guncotton.
"Acid?" asks Pringle reproachfully. "It's brandy. The best brandy possible."