“I say,” croaked a voice from another cot,—­its owner was a young officer who must just have escaped being left behind at a Base hospital as too dangerously wounded to move,—­“is that a newspaper down there?  Would some one have a look, and tell me if we have got Longueval all right?  Longueval?  Long—­I got pipped, and don’t quite—­”

The wounded major turned his head quickly.

“Hallo, Bobby!” he observed cheerfully.  “That you?  I didn’t notice you before.”

Bobby Little’s hot eyes turned slowly on Wagstaffe, and he exclaimed feverishly:—­

“Hallo, Major!  Cheeroh!  Did we stick to Longueval all right?  I’ve been dreaming about it a bit, and—­”

“We did,” replied Wagstaffe—­“thanks to ‘A’ Company.”

Bobby Little’s head fell back on the pillow, and he remarked contentedly:—­

“Thanks awfully.  I think I can sleep a bit now.  So long!  See you later!”

His eyes closed, and he sighed happily, as the long train slid out from the platform.

XIII

“TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE WARS”

The smoking-room of the Britannia Club used to be exactly like the smoking-room of every other London Club.  That is to say, members lounged about in deep chairs, and talked shop, or scandal—­or slumbered.  At any moment you might touch a convenient bell, and a waiter would appear at your elbow, like a jinnee from a jar, and accept an order with silent deference.  You could do this all day, and the jinnee never failed to hear and obey.

That was before the war.  Now, those idyllic days are gone.  So is the waiter.  So is the efficacy of the bell.  You may ring, but all that will materialise is a self-righteous little girl, in brass buttons, who will shake her head reprovingly and refer you to certain passages in the Defence of the Realm Act.

Towards the hour of six-thirty, however, something of the old spirit of Liberty asserts itself.  A throng of members—­chiefly elderly gentlemen in expanded uniforms—­assembles in the smoking-room, occupying all the chairs, and even overflowing on to the tables and window-sills.  They are not the discursive, argumentative gathering of three years ago.  They sit silent, restless, glancing furtively at their wrist-watches.

The clocks of London strike half-past six.  Simultaneously the door of the smoking-room is thrown open, and a buxom young woman in cap and apron bounces in.  She smiles maternally upon her fainting flock, and announces:—­

“The half-hour’s gone.  Now you can all have a drink!”

What would have happened if the waiter of old had done this thing, it is difficult to imagine.  But the elderly gentlemen greet their Hebe with a chorus of welcome, and clamour for precedence like children at a school-feast.  And yet trusting wives believe that in his club, at least, a man is safe!