"Elf!"
"Yuss?"
"Seed anyfink o' young 'Arry lately?'
"Not me!"
"Well, I 'ear 'e done a bit in the lead-slingin' line at a place called Wipers, an' they've been an' stuck some sort o' French medal on 'is chest."
"Blighter owes me fourpence, anyway," roars Elf; and I infer that neither of them has a high opinion of 'Arry's character from the civilian point of view.
Follows an interval filled with small confused sounds—the staccato note of a bell, the soft thud of a passenger's body as he is jerked unexpectedly against the rail, the picturesque ripple of his expostulations with Providence.
A lamp, burning with unusual and illegal garishness, gives me light enough to examine my watch. It indicates the proximity of midnight. I realize that I am incredibly stiff and cold, and am tormented by visions of unattainable comforts.
At last I am conscious of a line of dimmed lights, of a distant roar of escaping steam, of a violent quivering motion that indicates the slackening of speed. We come to a sudden halt. The voice of Elf rises triumphant.
"Bill!"