‘What are these lads when they’re at home?’ I inquired.
‘Londoners chiefly—all sorts and conditions.’
The cook in shirt sleeves made another investigation, and sniffed judicially. He might have been cooking since the Peninsular. He looked at his watch and across towards the park gates. He was responsible for one hundred and sixty rations, and a battery has the habit of saying quite all that it thinks of its food.
‘How often do the batteries go out?’ I continued.
‘’Bout five days a week. You see, we’re being worked up a little.’
‘And have they got plenty of ground to work over?’
‘Oh—yes-s.’
‘What’s the difficulty this time? Birds?’
‘No; but we got orders the other day not to go over a golf-course. That rather knocks the bottom out of tactical schemes.’
Perfect shamelessness, like perfect virtue, is impregnable; and, after all, the lightnings of this war, which have brought out so much resolve and self-sacrifice, must show up equally certain souls and institutions that are irredeemable.