“We’re all going to die of rheumatic fever,” said Doggie, shivering in his sodden uniform. “Blast this rain!”
Phineas thrust his hand beneath his clothing and produced a long, amorphous and repulsive substance, like a painted tallow candle overcome by intense heat, from which he gravely bit an inch or two.
“What’s that?” asked Doggie.
“It’s a stick of peppermint,” said Phineas. “I’ve still an aunt in Galashiels who remembers my existence.”
Doggie stuck out his hand like a monkey in the Zoo.
“You selfish beast!” he said.
CHAPTER XXIII
The fighting went on and, to Doggie, the inhabitants of the outside world became almost as phantasmagorical as Phineas’s providential aunt in Galashiels. Immediate existence held him. In an historic battle Mo Shendish fell with a machine bullet through his heart. Doggie, staggering with the rest of the company to the attack over the muddy, shell-torn ground, saw him go down a few yards away. It was not till later that he knew he had gone West with many other great souls. Doggie and Phineas mourned for him as a brother. Without him France was a muddier and a bloodier place and the outside world more unreal than ever.
Then to Doggie came a heart-broken letter from the Dean. Oliver had gone the same road as Mo. Peggy was frantic with grief. Vividly Doggie saw the peaceful deanery on which all the calamity of all the war had crashed with sudden violence.