‘’Cause o’ Cris, y’ mean? Wot’s a woman, or a ‘ole bloomin’ depot o’ women, ’longside o’ the chanst of field-service? You know I’m as keen on goin’ as you,’ said Lew.
‘Wish I was a bloomin’ bugler,’ said Jakin sadly. ‘They’ll take Tom Kidd along, that I can plaster a wall with, an’ like as not they won’t take us.’
‘Then let’s go an’ make Tom Kidd so bloomin’ sick ’e can’t bugle no more. You ’old ’is ’ands an’ I’ll kick him,’ said Lew, wriggling on the branch.
‘That ain’t no good neither. We ain’t the sort o’ characters to presoom on our rep’tations—they’re bad. If they leave the Band at the Depot we don’t go, and no error there. If they take the Band we may get cast for medical unfitness. Are you medical fit, Piggy?’ said Jakin, digging Lew in the ribs with force.
‘Yus,’ said Lew with an oath. ‘The Doctor says your ’eart’s weak through smokin’ on an empty stummick. Throw a chest an’ I’ll try yer.’
Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote with all his might. Jakin turned very pale, gasped, crowed, screwed up his eyes, and said—‘That’s all right.’
‘You’ll do,’ said Lew. ‘I’ve ’eard o’ men dying when you ’it ’em fair on the breastbone.’
‘Don’t bring us no nearer goin’, though,’ said Jakin. ‘Do you know where we’re ordered?’
‘Gawd knows, an’ ’E won’t split on a pal. Somewheres up to the Front to kill Paythans—hairy big beggars that turn you inside out if they get ’old o’ you. They say their women are good-looking, too.’
‘Any loot?’ asked the abandoned Jakin.