The three edged along the corridor, making their way over handbags and portmanteaux until they came to the compartment Meredith had secured.
"Leave your kit here," he remarked. "I'll find the attendant and get you a berth, Morpeth. S'pose you're going beyond York?"
He looked inquiringly at the bearded R.N.R. man, who wore a brand-new uniform under his sea-stained greatcoat.
"Yes, to Scapa, too," he replied. "I've got a shore berth there. Goodness knows how. Someone put their oar in for me—must have done. Anyhow, it's good money and a chance to get afloat occasionally, so I jumped at it. 'Fraid it's only for the duration though."
And he sighed deeply. Like many another man whose heart and soul are wrapped up in his work, he both longed for and dreaded the time when "Fritz chucked his hand in."
Meredith helped him off with his coat.
"Jolly strange," remarked Morpeth, "being one-armed; but I'm getting used to it. Often I can feel my missing fingers—absolute fact."
He sat down on an upturned suit-case and proceeded to fill his well-blackened pipe with a dexterity that surprised his companions. "That's a thing I've no use for now," he added, indicating a razor that Wakefield was removing from a handbag. "Being single-handed, in a manner of speaking, gives me an excuse for not shaving."
Just then a short, thick-set man in the rig of a commander R.N.R. thrust his head through the doorway.
"Sorry," he exclaimed apologetically. "Thought there might be a vacant berth. Why, dash my wigs, it's 'Tough Geordie'!"