The man turned his head like a sulky bird and looked at Brent without curiosity. He was one Corporal Sweeney, in charge of the guard at Harlech Dump. The guard was asleep and snoring inside the Nissen hut, sleeping the sleep of the bored. There was no estaminet within ten miles, and the few trains that were running passed by on the other side.
Brent walked up the cinder track. He meant to try his French on the keeper of the dump, and if French would not serve he could fall back on bastard English improvised for the occasion.
“Bon jour, monsieur.”
Corporal Sweeney went on scraping his boots.
“Go to hell,” he said.
Brent smiled as though Corporal Sweeney had uttered words of English politeness.
“Parlez-vous français, monsieur?”
“Urn poo,” said the corporal; “learnt it in your billets.”
“Vous avez bien de choses ici,” Brent indicated the stores with a sweep of the hand.
“What’s that?”