"If you'll let me through I'll stand on my hands."
"It's risky," said Wankin, then in a brave burst of bravado he said, "Damn it all! I'll let you go by. It's hard to stew dry so near the bar!" An hour later the young man set off towards home, and on his way he met two of his comrades-in-arms on the road.
"Going to —— pub?" he inquired.
"Going to see that no one does go near it," was the answer. "Picket duty for the rest of the day, we are."
"But Wankin—"
"What?"
The young man explained, and shortly afterwards Wankin went to headquarters under an armed escort. Three days later I saw his head sticking out through the guard-room window, and at that time I had not heard of the London road escapade.
"Here on account of drink?" I asked him.
"You fool," he roared at me. "Do you think I mistook this damned place for the canteen?"
I like Wankin and most of his mates like him. We feel that when detention, barrack confinement and English taverns will be things of yesterday, Wankin will make a good and trustworthy friend in the trenches.