We sprang to attention, and Blase-Bones entered as if he were the conqueror of Bagdad, Berlin, and Timbuctoo. He had a monocle—of course.
‘This hut looks like a beah-garden. Open that windah theah,’ he said, looking at me.
I obeyed. Twelve months in the ranks had taught me a lot.
‘Whose bed is this?’ he said, on arriving at Ginger’s doss-house.
I must own it looked the bally limit. But even the old commandant had never checked it. The C.O.’s view was that we were there to train and be educated, not wearied with pipeclay and eye-wash.
‘It’s mine, sir,’ answered Ginger.
‘Clean it up. Look smart!’
With a groan, Ginger leisurely commenced to bundle H. G. Wells, Conrad, Haking, Browning, and Zola into a long-suffering box.
‘Are these your boots?’ he asked Tosher.
‘Guess they are,’ said the Canadian casually.