Sawyer, gurgling in a characteristic manner meant to denote mirth, shook his head.
‘Sick is it?’ he commented. ‘Wot’s the complaint, matey? Some ’as fits; others injures their trigger fingers; some ’as lost their glasses and carn’t see nothink; some breaks their false teeth and gets shockin’ pains from the hard biscuits; some ’as pains in the kidneys; some ’as a narsty corph. ’Tain’t the season for corphs.’ Rubbing his nose with the back of a begrimed finger, he relapsed into thought. ‘Some ’as a buzzin’ in the ’ead wot nothink can cure. Some’—looking serious, he suddenly ended in a grunt—‘’Tain’t good enough, Tim, me lad, even for the pleasure of punchin’ the ’ead of a stinkin’ grocer. You see, if you only get a few days in ’orspital, back you come again. If you’re took serious, ’ome you goes and stays there for a long time and misses everythink ’ere.’ Gripping Hagan’s arm with highly strung fingers, he leaned nearer. ‘You ain’t goin’ to schrimshank at ’ome if a big push comes, old pal, are you?’
Hagan’s jaw clenched and his lips moved speechlessly. Then once more he drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to his friend.
‘Read that!’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ home.’
Sawyer’s face assumed a sphinx-like gravity. He knew the proverbial strength of obstinacy, also the amount of that commodity possessed by Tim Hagan. He smoothed out the paper and sniffed violently. A faint perfume of cheap scent permeated the immediate atmosphere. With a grunt, he proceeded to master the contents of the epistle. So slowly did he progress, however, that presently even Hagan began to show signs of impatience. Sawyer was, in truth, merely gaining time for thought.
‘If you’re caught out malingerin’ on active service, Tim,’ he whispered at length, ‘it won’t be only seven days “confined to barracks” you will be gettin’ off with.’
With eyes bent upon the crimson skyline, Hagan sighed wearily.
‘’Tis goin’ home I be, Jock,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll be afther marryin’ Kitty Murphy, and thin me sickness will all go and back it is I’ll come.’
With a groan of despair Sawyer crawled to his feet and, without another word, walked off in the direction of a ruined château. He knew there was no immediate urgency. For ordinary cases of illness the ambulance wagon would not arrive until the morning. He, therefore, still had all night in which to formulate a plan of operations. It was, of course, open to him to drop a hint to the R.A.M.C. orderly, but that would have to be a dernier ressort indeed.
Left to himself, Hagan brooded more sombrely than before. The regulations regarding reporting sick were perfectly familiar to him. For a serious case the medical officer could be summoned within a few minutes. The Field Ambulance advanced dressing-station, located in a school-house in the nearest village, was not more than a mile away. Weighing the matter in all its visible points, he suddenly decided that the rôle of an emergency case would better fit his purpose than that of the ordinary sick soldier reporting at the sealed-pattern hour.