“Yes.”
“So are we. It's up to him to-day. We're a mere wisp of what we were—”
Boylan simulated interest. There was but one idea in his world, however.
“By the way,” Dabnitz added. “The Commander asked for full particulars this morning at three. They were sent to him—Mr. Mowbray's case—”
Boylan jerked up his chin. Of late, his woolen collar had apparently shrunk.
“You haven't heard yet?”
“Not yet. We're waiting—”
“Nothing will be done until you hear?”
“Not in Mowbray's case. The others—the others have had tea.... They are very quiet this morning—no singing.”
Boylan hated him for that, a momentary but scarring hatred.... The field telephone began. Presently it occupied the steady swift attention of a stenographer whose pages were put on the machine and handed in strips to the staff members, like a last-minute news story to compositors. ...One of the hardest things Boylan ever did was to speak to Dabnitz as follows: “I'd better be there if you take the others and leave—leave Peter Mowbray. He's impulsive. You wouldn't want a scene—you know—”