An extra sharp tap caused the larger man to punch his assailant violently in the ribs, whereupon the latter threw his arms round the puncher’s neck, kissed him, and stated, with utter disregard for facts:
“’Erb! In our lives we was werry beautiful, an’ in our deafs we wos not diwided.” (Evidently a reminiscence of the Chaplain’s last sermon.)
But little mollified by the compliment, Herbert smote again, albeit less violently, as he remarked with a sneer:
“Ho, yus! You wouldn’t a bin divided all right if you’d stopped one o’ them liddle four-point-seven shells at Mikocheni, you would. Not ’arf, you wouldn’t. . . .”
But for crutches, splints, slings and bandages, no one would have supposed this to be a collection of sick and wounded men, wreckage of the storm of war, flotsam and jetsam stranded here, broken and useless. . . .
Bertram returned to his chair and tried to control his sick impatience and anxiety. Would she come? What should he say to her if she did? . . . Should he “propose”—(beastly word)? He had not thought much about marriage. . . . To see her and hear her voice was what he really wanted. Should he tell her he loved her? . . . Surely that would be unnecessary.
And then his heart stood still, as Mrs. Stayne-Brooker stepped from the companion-platform on to the deck, and came towards him—her face shining and radiant, her lips quivering, her eyes suffused.
He realised that she was alone, and felt that he had turned pale, as his heart sank like lead. But perhaps she was behind. . . . Perhaps she was in another boat. . . . Perhaps she was coming later. . . .
He rose to greet her mother—who gently pushed him back on the long cane couch-chair and rested herself on the folding stool that stood beside it.
Still holding his left hand, she sat and tried to find words to ask of his hurts, and could say nothing at all. . . . She could only point to the sling, as she fought with a desire to gather him to her, and cry and cry and cry for joy and sweet sorrow.