"Fed up!" growled Bill.
"Fed up? Well, o' course you're fed up. Ain't we all fed up? But that ain't no reason for goin' on like this. You might be a lot worse off. 'Ere we are, back from the line an' in billets in a nice little village with shops an' estaminets an' ... an' baths."
"If you wants one in the 'ear-'ole," said Bill, rising wrathfully, "you've on'y got to say 'bath' to me again. An' look 'ere, I never 'ad no use for sermons any'ow. Get on to the 'ymn."
Alf regarded him helplessly. Bill simply stared straight before him with a queer glint in his eyes.
"Look 'ere," said Higgins at last, deciding to stretch a point for the sake of a quiet life. "Shall I get Eustace to fetch yer a pint?"
"No."
"It'd do yer good."
"No, I tell yer. Keep yer blinkin' Eustace an' yer blinkin' beer, an' f'r 'Eaven's sake leave me alone. I'm fed up with the 'ole boilin' of yer—sick of it. Sick o' the War, an' this ruddy country, an' everything. I wants to get 'ome to Blighty, an', oh Gawd! to think I'll 'ave to wait another two months."
Alf was silent and sympathetic; he could remember times when he had been helpless in the grip of just such a desperate angry longing to escape from France and all that it stood for. An idea struck him.