Peter got up with the rest and began to hang things about him. His staringly new Sam Browne irritated him, but he forgot it as the train swung round the curve to the landing-stage.
"Get a porter and a truck, Donovan," said the Major, who was farthest from the door.
They got out nonchalantly, and Peter lit a cigarette, while the others threw remarks at the man as to luggage. Then they all trooped off together in a crowd that consisted of every variety of rank and regiment and section of the British Empire, plus some Waacs and nurses.
The Pride of Folkestone lay alongside, and when they got there she seemed already full. The four of them got jammed at the gangway and shoved on board, handing in and receiving papers from the official at the head as they passed him. Donovan was in front, and as he stepped on deck he swung his kit-bag back to Peter, crying:
"Lay hold of that, padre, and edge across the deck. Get up ahead of the funnel that side. I'll get chairs. Jenko, you rotter, get belts, and drop eyeing the girl!"
"Jolly nice bit of fluff," said Jenks meditatively, staring fixedly across the deck.
"Where?" queried the Major, fumbling for his eyeglass.
"Get on there, please, gentlemen," called a ship's official.
"Damn it! mind my leg!"
"Cheerio, old son, here we are again!"