"Spell out the screeve," ordered the R.E. Reserve man imperiously.
The Town Guard who had questioned the officer about the difference of time, deciphered the blotty writing on the slip of paper pinned round the stem of the new briar-root. It ran thus:
"i ope yu wil Engoy this Pip Deer; i Fild it A Purpus with Love and Menney Apey Riturnse. from
"Fare Air."
"'Is gal?" interrogated the Reserve man.
"His girl," assented the man who had read.
"And he never saw her no more, so he did not!" commented the Cardiff stoker as the pipe travelled from hand to hand to be smelt at, dandled, worshipped by every man in turn. Only the Sergeant-gunner, the grey-headed ex-Royal Field Artilleryman, maintained self-command by dint of looking very hard the other way. Then said Kildare impetuously:
"Take ut back, Corp'ril Keyse. 'Tis little wan poipe av tobacca wud count for betune six starvin' savigees."
"Wot I wants," growled the Reserve man, "is to over-'aul a bacca factory afire, and clap my mouth to 'er chimbley-shaft. So take it back, Corporal. It's no manner o' good to me!"