“Well, this chap I’m telling you of, was billeted there. He was attached to a Trench Mortar Battery. He was in charge of the mules. He didn’t talk a lot of rot about it, as you suggest he should. One of his mules was wounded and the other sick. He broke down the front of the shrine at the corner of the pasture to get a bit of shelter for them!”
The effect of this recital was not what Dormer expected.
“That was an unspeakably shocking thing to do, worse than losing any number of mules!”
“I suppose you’re a Catholic?”
“Yes, I am!”
“I thought as much. Well, I’m not, nor was this driver I’m telling you about. He just hated the waste and destruction of it all.”
“So he destroyed something more precious and permanent.”
“He thought a live mule was better than a dead saint.”
“He was wrong!”
And then the fellow shut up, got quite sulky. Dormer was delighted with his prowess in argument, waited a moment, turned on his side, and slept, as only men can who live in the open air, in continual danger of their lives, and who lose the greater portion of the night in ceaseless activity.