WHAT THEY FOUGHT FOR
"Confound it!" ejaculated Cumberleigh, ruefully contemplating a small amount of silver in his palm. "Bang goes another Bradbury. At this rate I'll be on the rocks before many days are over."
"Cheer up, Mr. Cumberleigh," exclaimed Pyecroft, with a marked emphasis on the "Mister." "You're only just beginning to feel your feet."
"You'll feel them in half a tick if you don't shut up," remarked the ex-R.A.F. captain grimly. "Now, then, Meredith, how's that patch setting? Or do we intend to stop here the night?"
It was the month of August 1919. The four demobbed chums—Meredith, Wakefield, Cumberleigh, and Pyecroft—were again tasting of the mixed blessings of civil life, carrying out a long-promised vow that they would celebrate their release from active service by going on a motor-cycling tour through Glorious Devon and the Delectable Duchy of Cornwall.
Barely three days had elapsed since Meredith and Wakefield found themselves "on the beach," with an accumulation of gear that they had acquired during their service afloat—kit that for the most part would be practically useless in the future.
Meredith had dug out his old 1913 motor cycle, thanking his lucky stars that he had not disposed of it when he first joined the Motor-Boat Reserve. Wakefield, too, was fortunate in that respect, although he quickly learnt the cost of accessories in the motor line compared with the price of far superior and more readily accessible articles of pre-war days.
Pyecroft had been hard hit. On the strength of his as yet unpaid gratuity he had just purchased a second-hand motor cycle, paying £20 more than it had originally cost five years ago; and he was still waiting hopefully for an advice from his R.A.F. bankers informing him that his gratuity had been paid. Moreover, he had hopes that he would be placed upon the "Unemployed List," with the rank of captain. With the advantage of a hundred and twenty days' experience of civil life he was the mentor and financial adviser of the party.
It was a change with a vengeance. Accustomed to living well at a cost of half a crown per diem for "messing," the demobbed ones were simply astounded at the prices demanded for meals at hotels, while the cost of petrol staggered them, especially when they had seen the volatile spirit wasted like water while on service.
"That's holding, I think," remarked Meredith, surveying the reinflated back tyre. "Don't know so much about it, though," he added doubtfully.