He bent over the unfortunate N.C.O.
"Dead as mutton," he announced nonchalantly. There was no surprise in his tone. Three years of living cheek by jowl with sudden death in all sorts of terrible forms had blunted his feelings. "Poor bloke! And it might have been a Blighty for him, too—same as me. 'Ere, mate!"
A man bending under the weight of a coil of wire was slouching past. At the hail he threw his burden down, glad of the opportunity to ease his aching shoulders.
"What's up?" he asked.
The driver explained.
"Fat lot you knows about an engine," remarked the new-corner. "That's why they put you in the M.T. And I've been driving motor-lorries all over Yorkshire and Lancashire these ten years. There's not a blinking motor that I can't master, and yet they shove me in the bloomin', foot-slogging infantry. Chronic, I calls it."
"Don't want to hear about your qualifications," broke in the driver with acerbity. "What I want is a practical demonstration."
Then realizing that it was hardly the style to adopt when a favour was required he added:
"'Course it was rough luck on you, mate; but I can't help it, can I? Now be a sport and get the old mule a-going, and I think I can find a whole packet of fags in my greatcoat pocket. Crikey! That was a near 'un," he ejaculated, as a shell burst about a hundred yards away and slightly to the left of the road. "Jerry's putting a lot of stuff over tonight."
"Sure you've got the fags?" enquired the newcomer cautiously. The prospect of getting hold of a packet of cigarettes interested him far more than did the Boche shells. Like the poor, German shells were always present; cigarettes were not.