In one corner of the room a game of cards was in progress, some soldiers were reading, and a few writing letters.  Now and again a song was heard, and a score of voices joined in the chorus.  The scene was one of indescribable gaiety; the temperament of the assembly was like a hearty laugh, infectious and healthy.  Now and then a discussion took place, and towards the close of the evening hot words were exchanged between Bill and his friend, the bright-eyed Cockney.

“I’ll give old Ginger Nobby what for one day!” said the latter.

“Will you?  I don’t think!”

“Bet yer a bob I will!”

“You’d lose it.”

“Would I?”

“Straight you would!”

“Strike me pink if I would!”

“You know nothin’ of what you’re sayin’.”

“Don’t I?”

“Git!”

“Shut!”

In the coffee-shop Wankin is invariably the centre of an interested group.  As the company scapegrace and black sheep of the battalion he occupies in his mates’ eyes a position of considerable importance.  His repartees are famous, and none knows better than he how to score off an unpopular officer or N.C.O.  He has the distinction also of having spent more days in the guard-room than any other man in the battalion.

On the occasion when identity discs were being served out to the men and a momentary stir pervaded the battalion, it was Wankin who first became involved in trouble.

He employed the disc string to fasten the water-bottle of the man on his left to the haversack of the man on his right, and the colour-sergeant, livid with rage, vowed to chasten him by confining him eternally to barracks.  But the undaunted company scapegrace was not to be beaten.  Fastening the identity disc on his left eye he fixed a stern look on the sergeant.

“My deah fellah,” he drawled out, imitating the voice of the company lieutenant who wears an eyeglass, “your remarks are uncalled for, really.  By Jove! one would think that a scrap of string was a gold bracelet or a diamond necklace.  I could buy the disc and the string for a bloomin’ ’apenny.”

“You’ll pay dearly for it this time,” said the colour with fine irony.  “Three days C.B.[2] your muckin’ about’ll cost you.”  And before Wankin could reply the sergeant was reporting the matter to the captain.

[Footnote 2:  Confinement to Barracks.]

Wankin is eternally in trouble, although his agility in dodging pickets and his skill in making a week’s C.B. a veritable holiday are the talk of the regiment.  All the officers know him, and many of them who have been victims of his smart repartee fear him more than they care to acknowledge.  The subaltern with the eyeglass is a bad route-marcher, and Wankin once remarked in an audible whisper that the officer had learned his company drill with a drove of haltered pack-horses, and the officer bears the name of “Pack-horse” ever since.