"Perishin'," answered Bill. "But it's a bit better'n doin' them blinkin' fatigues for the sergeant, eh?"
"You bet!"
The two men had spent a very wearing week. Wherever they went the cold disapproving eye of Lieutenant Donaldson seemed to be upon them; and they had been constrained to live a life of painful and laborious virtue. Sergeant Lees, divining their feelings, had taken shameful advantage of them with a view (he explained) to keeping them out of mischief.
As a consequence they had for the past week lived in a giddy social whirl of ration-parties, carrying-parties and similar entertainments. But relieved as they were at having started their journey, they were not beyond chafing at the dilatory methods of the train. At no time did it travel at much above a walking pace; and it was liable at any time and for no apparent reason to abandon all attempts to proceed. It would stand miserably for minutes together, and when it moved on, it did so without warning—a habit which, in a more energetic train, might have proved annoying.
"Come on," said Alf suddenly. "Train's starting."
"No 'urry," Bill grunted placidly. He got up, stretched himself and trotted leisurely along the train till he came to his own carriage, and swung himself in.
"'Ow about another bet?" said the gunner as they appeared. "A franc we don't pass that church over there this spasm."
"Righto. But you'll win—it must be 'arf-a-mile from 'ere."
"Well, if we're goin' to get to Blighty at all this week we'll 'ave to do a 'arf-mile stretch now an' again, you know."