‘Tea ready, cooky,’ he cried.
‘Phwat’s the good ov thay?’ grunted Hagan, dropping his pipe listlessly. ‘Fed up!’
Sawyer’s eyes dilated in speechless surprise. His rapid scrutiny of his pal’s downcast features failed to help.
‘’Ullo, what’s wrong, hey?’ he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand and dropping into the trench. ‘Can’t yer high-class stomach relish bully-beef no more? What’s wrong with it?’
Without answering in words Timothy slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his tunic, produced a much-thumbed envelope, and slowly unfolded a letter. The sight of the irregular writing seemed to have an immediate tonic effect upon his demeanour. His eyes suddenly became suffused with red-blood anger. (He had learned the habit in more than one barbed-wire scrimmage against the enemy.) Clenching his fists, he cursed beneath his breath, thoughtfully, with intent.
‘H’m!’ grunted Sawyer sympathetically.
‘There’s a blighter at home,’ stammered Hagan, ‘phwat is afeared to do his bit out here’—he hesitated as if to swallow pent-up gorge—‘of the name of O’Shea—a damned thaivin’ grocer. The letter says as how he’s afther walking out wid Kitty Murphy, as is promised to mesilf.’
‘Ugh, a woman is it?’ breathed Sawyer.
‘And me not able to get me hands on him,’ groaned Hagan. ‘’Tis perishin’ hard.’
The sharp explosions of anti-aircraft shells in rapid succession overhead caused Sawyer to glance upwards. Shading his eyes with his hand, he shook his head in disappointment at the marksmanship displayed, and slipped back again into a sitting posture.