“Wonder if you get me, bloke?”
He had begun to philosophize.
“Me for a bit of garden. Be home in time to get my pertaters in. Ever kep’ pigeons?”
“One time, monsieur.”
“Lot o’ sound gum in pigeons, and chickens. Make you feel sort of homy on Sunday mornings. Hear ’em cooin’ and cacklin’ and cluckin’. Got any kids?”
“Des enfants, monsieur?”
“Got it.”
“I get married this year.”
Corporal Sweeney gave a wise grin.
“Funny stunt—gettin’ married—but it’s all rite; yes—it’s all rite. Used t’ think it was kind of bloomin’ monot’nous. Well, I dunno. If you start goin’ round the corner with strange gals, well, it’s good-bye to the chickens and the pertaters. Besides it’s a mug’s game. Who’s your real pal? She as you have ’eard tryin’ not to scream out when she’s bearin’ the kid you’ve given ’er; she ’oo cooks yer Sunday dinner. T’aint slosh, it’s the truth.”