He lapsed into a resentful silence, and the corporal was satisfied that his emotion had been diverted into other channels. The other men grinned a little as they shook the dried grass-stems and dust off the ground-sheets. When they had finished tidying the tent, they sat about smoking, without their tunics, for the day was hot and airless. The corporal stood outside, with his eye on the officers’ tents watching for the appearance of Captain Malet. Then by chance he saw Bourne talking to Evans, who had been the Colonel’s servant, and had been taken over in that capacity by the officer commanding them temporarily, who was a major from another regiment. Evans, who never in private referred to his new master otherwise than as ‘that Scotch bastard’, though he had nothing Scots about him but a kilt, was now idly swinging the bucket, into which Bourne, Shem and the corporal himself had washed more than the dust of battle.

‘’e ’as some bloody ’ide, pinchin’ the commandin’ officer’s bucket,’ was the corporal’s only comment, turning his gaze towards the officers’ tents again. Presently Bourne stood beside him.

‘We’re on the move, Corporal,’ he announced.

‘Who says we’re on the move? Evans?’ he added the name as an after-thought so that Bourne might guess he knew where the bucket came from, and not underrate either his powers of observation and inference, or his more valuable quality of discretion.

‘Evans!’ exclaimed Bourne indifferently; ‘oh, no! I was only giving him back his bucket. Evans never hears anything except the dirty stories the Doctor tells the Major in the mess. Abbot told me. He said the cookers were to be ready to move off to Sand-pits at two o’clock. We’re on the move all right.’

‘Them bloody cooks know what we’re doing before the orderly-room does,’ said Corporal Tozer drily. ‘Well, if it’s good-bye to the fuckin’ Somme, I won’t ’arf ’ave a time puttin’ the wind up some o’ these bloody conscripts. Seen ’em yet? Buggered-up by a joy-ride in the train from Rouen to Méricourt, so they kept ’em fuckin’ about the camp, while they sent us over the bloody top; you an’ I, old son; in it up to the fuckin’ neck, we was! When they’ve ’ad me at ’em for a fortnight, they’ll be anxious to meet Fritz, they will. They’ll be just about ready to kiss ’im.’