The waiter brought in the breakfast—­porridge, fish, toast, and the rest—­and they fell to, a running fire of comments going on all the time.  Donovan had had Japanese marmalade somewhere, and thought it better than this.  The Major wouldn’t touch the beastly margarine, but Jenks thought it quite as good as butter if taken with marmalade, and put it on nearly as thickly as his toast.  Peter expanded in the air of camaraderie, and when he leaned back with a cigarette, tunic unbuttoned and cap tossed up on the rack, he felt as if he had been in the Army for years.  He reflected how curious that was.  The last two or three years or so of Boy Scouts and hospitals and extra prayer-meetings, attended by the people who attended everything else, seemed to have faded away.  There was hardly a gap between that first war evening which he remembered so clearly and this.  It was a common experience enough, and probably due to the fact that, whereas everything else had made little impression, he had lived for this moment and been extraordinarily impressed by that Sunday.  But he realised, also, that it was due as much to his present companions.  They had, seemingly, accepted him as he had never been accepted before.  They asked practically no questions.  So far as he could see, he made no difference to them.  He felt as if he were at last part of a great brotherhood, in which, chiefly, one worried about nothing more important than Japanese marmalade and margarine.

“We’re almost there, boys,” said Bevan, peering out of window.

“Curse!” ejaculated Jenks.  “I hate getting my traps together in a train, and I loathe the mob on the boat.”

“I don’t see why you should,” said Donovan.  “I’m blest if I bother about anything.  The R.T.O. and the red-caps do everything, and you needn’t even worry about getting a Pullman ticket this way over.  Hope it’s not rough, though.”  He let a window down and leaned out.  “Looks all right,” he added.

Peter got up with the rest and began to hang things about him.  His staringly new Sam Browne irritated him, but he forgot it as the train swung round the curve to the landing-stage.

“Get a porter and a truck, Donovan,” said the Major, who was farthest from the door.

They got out nonchalantly, and Peter lit a cigarette, while the others threw remarks at the man as to luggage.  Then they all trooped off together in a crowd that consisted of every variety of rank and regiment and section of the British Empire, plus some Waacs and nurses.

The Pride of Folkestone lay alongside, and when they got there she seemed already full.  The four of them got jammed at the gangway and shoved on board, handing in and receiving papers from the official at the head as they passed him.  Donovan was in front, and as he stepped on deck he swung his kit-bag back to Peter, crying: 

“Lay hold of that, padre, and edge across the deck.  Get up ahead of the funnel that side.  I’ll get chairs.  Jenko, you rotter, get belts, and drop eyeing the girl!”