"What are you standin' still for?"
"Waitin' for my turn with the shavin' brush," came the quiet answer.
At this the Corporal departed, swearing wrathfully, for he was no match for Cowdie. At his departure the rest of the company in No. 7 tent burst into loud laughter, for they enjoyed immensely this daily tug-of-war between the bullying orderly N.C.O. and the apparently meek but cunning Cowdie, who was a great favourite, despite the nickname of "Spare Part," and "Regimental Cuckoo," which had been bestowed upon him.
Though he had lost two minutes in the start yet Cowdie was dressed, washed and shaved first as usual, for somehow he had the knack of literally jumping into his clothes, even when the men received an alarm and were turned out in the dark of the night.
These little morning episodes did much to enliven the men and to help them to endure the dull fatigue and monotony which was part of the lot of every man ho went overseas with the British Expeditionary Force. All the time they were preparing for the roll call, dressing, shaving, rolling up their beds, tidying their kits, a running fire of sparkling wit and frolic was kept up.
Even when the aerodrome was bombed by the German aeroplanes, which happened two or three times each week, almost always just as dawn was breaking, these brave men joked just the same, amid the bursting bombs, and the blinding flashes of the explosions, the ensuing crashes, and the rattle of the anti-aircraft guns with which the aerodrome was defended.
While the shaving was in progress this morning and three of the men were trying to shave by the aid of one little cracked mirror about three inches by two in size, Brat, the despatch-rider attached to the squadron, said to the inimitable Cowdie,
"I hope you finished that letter last night, old man. You finished up all that two inches of candle I lent you. It must have been a long letter you wrote."
"No, I didn't quite finish it," replied Cowdie quietly.
"Was it another letter to your little girl in Old Blighty?"