As the poet says, it is a long lane that has no public-house, and a long worm that has no turning.
Hall stared.
“Well said, Greene,” quoth he, and never jested at Bertram’s expense again.
“Seriously—should I leave a card on the General?” continued Bertram.
“You should not,” was the reply. “Avoid Generals as you would your creditors. They’re dangerous animals in peace-time. On manœuvres they’re ferocious. On active service they’re rapid. . . .”
“Any harm in my strolling round the Camp?” pursued Bertram. “I’m awfully interested, and might get some ideas of the useful kind.”
“None whatever,” said Hall. “No reason why you shouldn’t prowl around like the hosts of Midian till dinner-time. There’s nothing doing in the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth till four a.m. to-morrow, and you’re not in that, either.”
“What is it?” asked Bertram.
“Oh, a double-company of Ours is going out to mop up a little post the Germans have established across the river. We’re going to learn ’em not to do such,” said Hall.
“D’you think I might go?” asked Bertram, wondering, even as he spoke, whether it was his voice that was suggesting so foolish a thing as that Bertram Greene should arise at three-thirty in the morning to go, wantonly and without reason, where bullets were flying, bayonets were stabbing, and death and disablement were abroad.