‘It’s a sad thing, Scouse, when there’s no beer for the likes of us.’

He recognised the Irish accent, the ingratiating voice.

‘Reckon there’s any up Wintersley?’ he asked, turning towards Mulrooney, who was standing across the road in the dusk.

‘There’ll not be any left there by now,’ said Mulrooney, ‘with the rest of the brigade quartered up there. No, Scouse, it’s cocoa and bed for you and poor old me tonight.’

Scannock swore. There was a well of savagery in his breast, thrusting up in him to find an outlet. Drink and battle were the only ways he knew to give vent to it. Both were denied him, and he was desperate.

‘Come for a walk, Scouse,’ said the Irishman, ‘it’ll do ye good.’

Scannock was not used to having friends. There were few men in the battalion who cared to go drinking with a dirty, inarticulate Liverpool bruiser. Mulrooney, himself alone and at bay, had found him sitting by himself in the canteen one evening and had bought him a couple of pints. Since then they had gone out drinking together several times. There was no liking between them; neither was capable of this. But Scannock, with his dim and groping brain, found in the other a quick cunning on which he could lean. Mulrooney, in turn, had his own reasons for cultivating this dumb and desperate man.

‘It’s a cryin’ shame,’ he said, as they left the village behind them, ‘the way they treat us boys at a time like this.’

Scannock did not answer.

‘Don’t ye think so, Scouse?’ the Irishman urged.

‘How d’you mean?’ Scannock grunted.

‘Why,’ said Mulrooney, ‘it’s like kings they should be treating us now, should they not! What do they pay us? Not enough to buy a good night’s drinking. What can we do, now, with the few pieces of silver they fling at us every week?’

Scannock stopped and looked at him suspiciously.

‘Out with it, Paddy,’ he said.

Mulrooney chuckled. ‘Ah, Scouse,’ he said admiringly, ‘ye’re sharper than they think, aren’t youse?’ He took Scannock by the arm and drew him towards the hedge.

‘Are you game for a bit of fun?’ he said softly.

‘Fun?’

‘For a man with guts, that’s what it will be. Listen, have ye ever done a night’s work at Hodge’s Farm? No? Well, I have. Hodge, the farmer, he pays ye when ye’ve done, in the kitchen. He has his money in a cash box, a black tin box. And when he’s paid youse he puts it away in the kitchen-cupboard.’

Scannock looked at him sceptically.

‘Yes, man,’ Mulrooney went on, ‘in the cupboard. They trust everyone, these people. In notes and silver there must be ten pounds in that box. And there’s only a window with an ordinary catch, to open, and ye’re in.’

Scannock hesitated.