When I entered the third smoker there was, as there now always is, a soldier in one corner.
Just as we were starting, another soldier got in and sat in the opposite corner. The freemasonry of Khaki immediately setting to work, within two minutes they knew all about each other's camp, destination and regiment, and had exchanged cigarettes.
The first soldier had not yet left England and was stolid; the newcomer had been in the trenches, had been wounded in the leg, had recovered, was shortly going back, and was animated. His leg was all right, except that in wet weather it ached. In fact he could even tell by it when we were going to have rain. His "blooming barometer" he called it. Here he laughed—a hearty laugh, for he was a genial blade and liked to hear himself talk.
The first soldier did not laugh, but was interested. He thought it a convenient thing to have a leg that foretold the weather.
"Which one is it?" he asked.
"The left."
The first soldier was disproportionately impressed.
"The left, is it?" he said heavily, as though he would have understood the phenomenon in the right easily enough. "The left."
Completely unconscious of the danger-signals, the second soldier now began to unload his repertory of stories, and he started off with that excellent one, very popular in the early days of the War, about the wealthy private.
For the sake of verisimilitude he laid the scene in his own barracks. "A funny thing happened at our place the other day," he began. He had evidently had great success with this story. His expression indicated approaching triumph.