"Well, I have," Albert Edward went on. "They're wonders; pretend
they're in mid-ocean all the time, stuck in the mud on the Beaucourt
Ridge, gummed in the clay at Souchez--anywhere. They 'come aboard'
a trench and call their records-office--a staid and solid bourgeois
dwelling in Havre--_H.M.S. Victory_. If you were bleeding to death and
asked for the First Aid Post they wouldn't understand you; you've got
to say 'Sick bay' or bleed on. If you want a meal you've got to call
the cook-house 'The galley,' or starve.
"This _matelot_ Blenkinsop has got it very badly. He obtained all his
sea experience at the Crystal Palace and has been mud-pounding up and
down France for three years, and yet here we have him now pretending
there's no such thing as dry land."
"Not an unnatural delusion," I remarked.
"Well," resumed Albert Edward, "across the table from him sits our old
MacTavish, lisping, 'What is the Atlantic? Is it a herb?' I'll bet my
soul they're in their billets at this moment, MacTavish mugging up
some stable-patter out of NAT GOULD, and Blenkinsop imbibing a dose
of ship-chatter from 'BARTIMEUS.' They'll come in for food presently,
MacTavish doing what he imagines to be a 'cavalry-roll,' tally-hoing
at the top of his voice, and Blenkinsop weaving his walk like the
tough old sea-dog he isn't, ship a-hoying and avasting for dear life."
"They're both going on leave with you to-morrow, aren't they?" I
asked.
Albert Edward nodded.
"Then their game is up," said I.