“Blast. It’s in my Field Note Book, in my valise, in store here. I shall have to send to have it got out. Wait half a mo’ and I’ll get an orderly.”
As they waited, he went on:
“What’s he wanted for? Some dam’ Frenchman going to crime him for stealing hop-poles?”
“Something of that sort. You wouldn’t remember it, it happened before you joined the Battery.”
“Then it jolly well wasn’t my man Watson. He’d only just come up from Base!”
“Come, the man was of middle size and ordinary to look at, and had been servant to an officer of the name of Fairfield, who was killed!”
“Oh, that chap. I know who you mean now. I don’t call him my servant. I only had him for a day or two. His name was Smith, as far as I can recollect. We were in the line, and I never got his number. He disappeared, may have been wounded, or gone sick of course, we were strafed to Hell, as usual. I should have got rid of him in any case. He was a grouser!”
“Didn’t like the War?”
“I should say not.”
Hopeless, of course. When Andrews saw Dormer rise and close his notebook, he apologized: