He nudged Brent with his elbow.
Brent saw a bit of brown bread in the young German’s hand.
“Hungrig?”
Brent smiled.
“I am—that.”
He took the piece of bread, and ate with gross relish, for he was famished. The “field-greys” stood around and smoked cigarettes, English cigarettes picked up during the advance. The N.C.O. questioned Brent.
“Any English up there?”
Brent shook his head and went on eating. He was thinking of Manon Latour trudging along in the spring sunshine with the larks singing overhead.
“She ought to be safe,” he thought; “she had about an hour’s start. Damned nice little woman, that!”