He sighed, and in an abstracted way he took a half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear and relit it.
“What were yer before yer joined? Yer look like a clerk.” He pronounced it as if it were spelt with a “u.”
“Something of the sort,” replied Doggie cautiously.
“One can always tell you eddicated blokes. Making your five quid a week easy, I suppose?”
“About that,” said Doggie. “What were you?”
“I was making my thirty bob a week regular. I was in the fish business, I was. And now I’m serving my ruddy country at one and twopence a day. Funny life, ain’t it?”
“I can’t say it’s very enjoyable,” said Doggie.
“Not the same as sitting in a snug orfis all day with a pen in your lily-white ’and, and going ’ome to your ’igh tea in a top ’at. What made you join up?”
“The force of circumstances,” said Doggie.
“Same ’ere,” said Mo; “only I couldn’t put it into such fancy language. First my pals went out one after the other. Then the gels began to look saucy at me, and at last one particular bit of skirt what I’d been walking out with took to promenading with a blighter in khaki. It’d have been silly of me to go and knock his ’ead off, so I enlisted. And it’s all right now.”