“France, sunny France!” The tone carried concentrated bitterness and disgust. “One cursed fraud after another in this war.”
“Cheer up!” said Barry. “There's worse to come—perhaps better. This rain is beastly, but the clouds will pass, and the sun will shine again, for in spite of the rain this IS 'sunny France.' There's a little homily for you,” said Barry, “and for myself as well, for I assure you this combination of mal de mer and sleet makes one feel rotten.”
“Everything is rotten,” grumbled Duff, gazing gloomily through the drizzling rain at the rugged outline of wharves that marked the Boulogne docks.
“Look at this,” cried Duff, sweeping his hand toward the deck. “You would think this stuff was shot out of the blower of a threshing machine—soldier's baggage, kits, quartermaster's stores—and this is a military organisation. Good Lord!”
“Lieutenant Duff! Is Lieutenant Duff here?” It was the O. C.'s voice.
“Yes, sir,” said Duff, going forward and saluting.
“Mr. Duff, I wish you to take charge of the Transport for the present. Lieutenant Bonner is quite useless—helpless, I mean. You will find Sergeant Mackay a reliable man. Sorry I couldn't give you longer notice. I think, however, you are the man for the job.”
“I'll do my best, sir,” said Duff, saluting, as the O. C. turned away.
“What did I tell you, Duff?” said Barry. “You certainly are in for it, and you have my sympathy.”
“Sympathy! Don't you worry about me,” said Duff. “This is just the kind of thing I like. I haven't run a gang of navvies in the Crow's Nest Pass for nothing. You watch my smoke. But, one word, Pilot! When you see me bearing down, full steam ahead, give me room! I'll make this go or bust something.” Then in a burst of confidence, he took Barry by the arm, and added in a low voice: “And if I live, Pilot, I'll be running something in this war bigger than the Transport of a battalion before I'm done.”