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Also he felt that he was assisting at the making of history. 'Orace in a bloomin' siege Gorblimey! and he, who had never killed anything bigger than an insect in his life, lusted to know how it felt to shove your bayonet into a feller or shoot 'im dead at short rynge.
Stinky listened in amazement. Here was another change that he was too dazed to understand, and, hastily grabbing his coat, he ran. Pinkey ran to Chook's prostrate body, and listened. "I can 'ear 'im breathin'," she cried. The others listened, and the breathing grew louder, a curious, snoring sound. "Gorblimey! A knock-out!" "'E'll be right in a few minutes." It was true.
His aristocratic temperament resented these questions. He answered "No" curtly. The man persisted with a still more personal question, and this time it was Denton who turned away. "Gorblimey!" said his interlocutor, much astonished.
"W'y, gorblimey!" said Hardy, "Ain't that queer? that's jes' wot I wos a-thinkin' . . . Well, Gawd 'elp Sorjint Slavin now!" With which cryptic utterance he resumed his eternal polishing. "Amen!" responded the farrier piously, "Reddy, here, an' Yorkey on th' same detachment. . . . What th' one don't know t'other'll teach him. . . . You'd better let 'em have th' parrot, too."
When we got to Ypres, we found that we had to go back to where we had started from, so we struggled on. On the way we met a bunch of Lancashire men. "What do you belong to?" they asked us as they passed. "We are all that is left of a Canadian battalion," we replied. "Gorblimey, it's bleedin' orful," said they. Just as day was breaking we hit camp.
"Old sweats!" he echoed sarcastically he pronounced it "aoweld" "Yas! you go tell that t' th' Marines, me lad! . . . Took a few o' th' sime 'old sweats' t' knock ''Ay Leg! 'Straw Leg' inter some o' you mossbacks at th' stort orf. Gee! Har! oh, gorblimey, yas!" He illustrated his trenchant remarks in suggestive pantomime.
"Reel reg'mental?" echoed Hardy mincingly, "aowe gorblimey! 'awk t'im? well, wot abaht it? I've done my bit, too! in Injia. See 'ere; look!" He pulled up the loose duck-pant of his right leg. On the outside of the hairy, spare but muscular limb, an ugly old dirty-white scar zigzagged from knee to ankle. "Paythan knife," he informed them briefly, "but I did th' blowke in wot give it me."
"But"-he sighed and looked around the noisy glittering place, at the smart barmaids, the well-clad throng of loungers, some in evening dress, the half-dozen gorgeous ladies sitting with men at little tables by the window "I thinks as how you gets more real happiness in a quiet village pub, and the beer is cheaper, and gorblimey!"
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