My reply was in the affirmative.
We were silent for a while, remorse weighing heavily upon us.
"The worst case," said Ernest at length, "was when I got my commission and came home for my kit."
I composed myself to listen, piously determined not to grumble however tedious I might find his recital.
"We'd been near a place called Ypres," he began.
"I seem to have heard the name," I murmured.
"I hadn't been sleeping really well for a week—we'd been in the trenches that time—and before that I had lain somewhat uneasily upon a concrete floor."
"Yes, concrete is hard, isn't it?" I said.
"We came out at three in the morning, and arrived at our billets about seven. I knew this commission was on the tapis—French word meaning carpet—so I hung round not daring to turn in. At eleven o'clock I had orders to push off home to get my kit. You'll guess I didn't want asking twice. I made my way to the railhead at once in case of any hitch, and had to wait some time for a train. It was a goods train when it came, but it did quite well and deposited me outside the port of embarkation about nine o'clock at night. I walked on into the port and found the ship that was crossing next morning. I went below in search of a cabin. There was a French sailor there to whom I explained my need."
"How?" I asked, for I do not share Ernest's opinion of his mastery of the French language, but he ignored this.