“I don’t think it’s fair to interfere with one’s sleep like that,” said Doggie.
“You’ve got to adapt yourself to it,” said McPhail sagely. “No doubt you’ll be remembering my theory of adaptability. Through that I’ve made myself into a very brave man. When I wanted to run away—a very natural desire, considering the scrupulous attention I’ve always paid to my bodily well-being—I reflected on the preposterous obstacles put in the way of flight by a bowelless military system, and adapted myself to the static and dynamic conditions of the trenches.”
“Gorblime!” said Mo Shendish, stretched out by his side, “just listen to him!”
“I suppose you’ll say you sucked honey out of the shells,” remarked Doggie.
“I’m no great hand at mixing metaphors——”
“What about drinks?” asked Mo.
“Nor drinks either,” replied McPhail. “Both are bad for the brain. But as to what you were saying, laddie, I’ll not deny that I’ve derived considerable interest and amusement from a bombardment. Yet it has its sad aspect.” He paused for a moment or two. “Man,” he continued, “what an awful waste of money!”
“I don’t know what old Mac is jawing about,” said Mo Shendish, “but you can take it from me he’s a holy terror with the bayonet. One moment he’s talking to a Boche through his hat and the next the Boche is wriggling like a worm on a bent pin.”
Mo winked at Phineas. The temptation to “tell the tale” to the new-comer was too strong.