"
"He'll _think_ he does," said Sammy Barham with conviction.
"The Infant is quite a good Infant," Otway observed; and then,
sinking his voice a tone, "Lord, if at his age I'd had his sense of
responsibility . . ."
Barham noted the change of tone, though he could not catch the words.
Again he threw a quick look towards his senior. Something was wrong
with him, something unaccountable. . . .
Yarrell-Smith noted nothing. "Well, he won't see anything to-night,
sir; and if Sammy will pull himself together and pity the sorrows of
a poor young man whose trembling knees--"
"Sorry," said Sammy, turning to the locker and fishing forth a
bottle.
"--I'll tell you why," Yarrell-Smith went on as the tot was filled.
"First place, the Bosch has finished hating us for to-night and gone
to bye-bye. Secondly, it's starting to sleet--and that vicious, a
man can't see five yards in front of him."
"I love my love with a B because he's Boschy," said Sammy lightly:
"I'll take him to Berlin--or say, Bapaume to begin with--and feed him
on Substitutes. . . . Do you know that parlour-game, Yarrell dear?
Are you a performer at Musical Chairs? Were you by any chance
brought up on a book called _What Shall We do Now?_ The fact is--"
Sammy, who could be irreverent, but so as never to offend, stole a
look at Otway--"we're a trifle hipped in the old log cabin.
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