She
used to slide down the banisters, too. Yer should 'ave seen it, Pat.
It almost made me write poetry myself."
"I'll try and do something for you," I said. "Have you been in the
dug-out yet?"
"Yes, it's not such a bad place, but there's seven of us in it," said
Bill, "it's 'ot as 'ell. But we wouldn't be so bad if Z---- was out of
it. I don't like the feller."
"Why?" I asked, Z---- was one of our thirteen, but he couldn't (p. 094)
pull with us. For some reason or other we did not like him.
"Oh, I don't like 'im, that's all," was the answer. "Z---- tries to
get the best of everything. Give ye a drink from 'is water bottle when
your own's empty; 'e wouldn't. I wouldn't trust 'im that much." He
clicked his thumb and middle finger together as he spoke, and without
another word he vanished into the dug-out.
On the whole the members of our section, divergent as the poles in
civil life, agree very well. But the same does not hold good in the
whole regiment; the public school clique and the board school clique
live each in a separate world, and the line of demarcation between
them is sharply drawn. We all live in similar dug-outs, but we bring a
new atmosphere into them. In one, full of the odour of Turkish
cigarettes, the spoken English is above suspicion; in another,
stinking of regimental shag, slang plays skittles with our language.
Only in No. 3 is there two worlds blent in one; our platoon officer
says that we are a most remarkable section, consisting of literary men
and babies.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74