“Nearly six munce now. Blime, I could do with a spell now, too. I’m beginnin’ to get a ’ump like a camel from carryin’ these flamin’ boxes.”
“Aw, yes, but it’s better than bein’ in the trenches, ain’t it?” asks Kitch.
“Blime, no,” is the reply. “A man’s got a chance to hit back there, but down ’ere it’s up to putty. It’s bad enough to be eatin’ bully beef, but carryin’ it as well is rotten. I couldn’t look a decent bullock in the face now for what I’ve said about ’im when ’e’s tinned.”
“Did yer ’ear wot was doin’ up at Narks Post larst night, Bill?”
“Yes; some d——d gobblers thought they would catch our mob nappin’ but missed the bus, and some of ’em are still runnin’ yellin’ to Aller to stick to ’em. Blast ’em! I’ll give ’em Aller when I get a chance. Keepin’ a man stuck on ’ere when ’e might be havin’ a good time somewhere else. I’ll bet——”
“Come on, Bill, ’ere comes the W.O.,”[7] says his mate.
“D—— ’im—see yer later, matey; and I’ll try to get a badge for yer.”
“Don’t forget, choom. Ah want it to send to my married sister’s little lass. She thinks youm lads be prime boys.”
“Prime boys,” mutters Bill, as he grabs his case of bully. “Yes, prime boys jugglin’ Best Prime Bully Beef.”
“D—— it—shut up, Bill,” says his mate. “You’re always growlin’—you’ll want flowers on your grave next.”