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Didn't want to let these English blighters get ahead of me, especially after all the ragging Indiana Joe got in the story. Train stopped at Birmingham at noon. My tobacco pouch had run empty, and I hopped out to buy some Murray's at the newsstand. Saw the prettiest flapper of my life on the platform the real English type; tweed suit, dark hair, gray eyes, and cheeks like almond blossoms.
But Ken thought only of vengeance against the traitor Kemp, and as for Roy, he was the sort to fight till he dropped, and laugh at any odds. 'Where's Dave? asked Ken, as they tore along, side by side. 'All right when I last saw him about half a mile back, was the answer. 'Which way have those blighters gone? Ken, alone, might have been at a loss to follow, but this was where Roy came in.
A gentleman's church or a peasant's church? Look at the priests, John Marsh, look at them! My God, what bounders! Little greedy, grubbin' blighters, livin' for their Easter offerin's, an' doin' damn little for their money. What do you think takes them into the church? Love of God? Love of man? No, bedam if it is.
"A fair mix-up, it were." "What do you think of the Germans?" There was a chorus of voices. "Not much" "Blighters" "Swine." "Their 'coal-boxes' don't come off half the time," said the R.F.A. man professionally. "And their shrapnel hasn't got the dispersion ours has. Ours is a treat like sugar-loaf." The German gunnery has become deadly enough since then.
Generally our efforts were along more conventional lines. I remember a rose-garden with a sundial in the middle of it. The roses, to preserve them from frost, were carefully wrapped in sacking during severe weather, and an irreverent soldier, fresh from the trenches, commented on the fact that "These blighters at the base are growing sandbags." We were short of implements, but we dug.
He knew him one of those good-looking blighters; one of those oiled and curled perishers; one of those blooming fascinators who go about the world making things hard for ugly, honest men with loving hearts. Oh, yes, he knew the milkman. 'He's a rare one with his jokes, said the girl. Constable Plimmer went on not replying. He was perfectly aware that the milkman was a rare one with his jokes.
Phillips shouted: "Long live the Queen! long live the Queen!" The Queen, still standing on the bottom step, gave a little cry of delight. The men in the boat sat still, with puzzled grins on their faces. Mr. Phillips bounded down to them, leaping the steps in threes and fours. "Cheer, you blighters," he said, "unless you want your silly skulls smashed. Cheer like billy-o. Long live the Queen!"
"All right; I'll put the matter before him." He returned to the bedroom. The Sausage Chappie was gazing fondly into the mirror with a spotted tie draped round his neck. "I say, old top," said Archie, apologetically, "the Emperor of the Blighters out yonder says you can have a job here as waiter, and he won't do another dashed thing for you. How about it?" "Do waiters eat?" "I suppose so.
What exactly would it be like, being alone often and for lengthy periods with Freddie? Well, it would, she assumed, be like this. "It's all right," said Freddie without looking up. "He did get out! He had a bomb on him, and he threatened to drop it and blow the place to pieces unless the blighters let him go. So they cheesed it. I knew he had something up his sleeve." Like this!
The captain, a small, white, recumbent spectre, lifted his head and appeared to sniff the smoke judicially. "They get a chance at us, more like!" he grumbled. "My opinion, the blighters have shot and burnt themselves into a state o' mind; bloomin' delusion o' grandeur, that's what. Wildest of 'em will rush us to-night, once maybe twice.
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