now, or something precious
like it. The blinking Army's got dry-rot and revolutionary fever, and we
may all be murdered in our little beds unless I put a shoulder to the
wheel. That's a bit mixed, but it'll stand. I shall be churning out this
thing by the yard in a little."
"Any extra pay?" demanded Pennell anxiously. "I can lecture on
engineering, and would do for an extra sixpence. Whisky's going up, and
I haven't paid my last mess bill."
"You haven't, old son," said Arnold, coming in, "and you've jolly well
got to. Here's a letter for you, Graham."
Peter glanced at the envelope and tore it open. Pennell knocked his pipe
out with feigned dejection. "The fellow makes me sick, padre," he said.
"He gets billets-doux every hour of the blessed day."
Peter jumped up excitedly. "This is better," he said. "It's a letter from
Langton at Rouen, a chap I met there who writes occasionally. He's been
hauled in for this stunt himself, and is to go to Abbeville as well. By
Jove, I'll go up with him if I can. Give me some paper, somebody. I'll
have to write to him at once, or we'll boss it."
"And make a will, and write to a dozen girls, I should think," said
Pennell. "I don't know what the blooming Army's coming to. Might as well
chuck it and have peace, I think. But meantime I've got to leave you
blighted slackers to gad about the place, and go and do an honest day's
work. _I_ don't get Staff jobs and red tabs. No; I help win the ruddy
war, that's all. See you before you go, Graham, I suppose? They'll likely
run the show for a day or two more without you. There'll be time for you
to stand a dinner on the strength of it yet."
A week later Peter met Langton by appointment in the Rouen club, the two
of them being booked to travel that evening via Amiens to Abbeville. His
tall friend was drinking a whisky-and-soda in the smoke-room and talking
with a somewhat bored expression to no less a person than Jenks of the
A.S.C.
Peter greeted them. "Hullo!" he said to the latter. "Fancy meeting