"All right," Bubb answered. "Thought I wasn't coming out, eh? Are you fed up?" he asked.
"A bit sick of it," said Bowdy. "I'm tired of looking across the parapet day and night. How do you like it?"
"Rotten," said Spudhole. "The weather is so damned rotten! Everything's rotten."
He got upon the firestep, placed his rifle against the wall, and tied his waterproof across his shoulders.
"Old Flanagan is back," said Bubb, as Bowdy made his way towards the dug-out. "'E 'as come wiv a fresh draft o' men."
"Who? Flanagan? Where is he?" Bowdy asked in one mouthful.
"He's in the dug-out," said Bubb.
Bowdy rushed in, almost trampling on the face of a man who was asleep near the door. Yes, Flanagan was there—handsome Flanagan, the gallant youngster with a college education.
He was an Irish boy and belonged to the section at St. Alban's in the old days. He was a fine-looking youth of medium height, with heavy dark hair, an intelligent forehead, impassioned nostrils and an air of aloofness which became him well. He had a frank and open expression, pensive grey eyes and high cheekbones. He came from the West of Ireland and had studied for the priesthood. But feeling that this was not his vocation he entered the Civil Service. His people belonged to an old Irish family full of pride and poverty. Flanagan, though well educated, was a bit of a rake and loved the bottle. When excited he spoke with a delicious brogue and paid little heed to his grammar, but he was an omnivorous reader and carried a number of books about with him in his haversack. Montaigne was a great favourite of his. He had gone home badly wounded seven months earlier and his mates never expected to see him out in France again.
He was now sitting in a corner of the dug-out, his handsome face radiant with joy and eagerness, betraying a certain boyish innocence which in no way detracted from the dignity of his features.