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But against this you had to set the fact that he was making an undoubted hit in the right quarter, and also that after the evening's reading he always stayed on to dinner; and, from what he told me, the dinners turned out by old Little's cook had to be tasted to be believed. There were tears in the old blighter's eyes as he got on the subject of the clear soup.
"I'm looking after a second year's man who's got these rooms. The wretched blighter's down with influenza. No whist tonight, old man." Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him. "I say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are you?" he asked. "Not on your account. I must work at my surgery." "Don't put it off. I shall be all right. You needn't bother about me."
He left the sentence unfinished, but he must have looked the rest for Cockney fell into a terrible funk. "Ow, s' 'elp me, Hi didn't mean no trouble. Hit was the nyme 'e called 'e called me old mother hout o' 'er blinkin' nyme, that's wot! Hi didn't mean for to do it but me temper the wy the blighter's used us blokes hand the nyme on top o' that "
Some blighter's written from the A.C.G.'s office, and I've got to get a movement order from the Colonel of the group, whatever that means. But I suppose you can put me straight about that, anyway." "Sure thing. Come up to the orderly-room 'bout eleven, and you can fill up the chit and I'll fire it in for you. It's only a matter of form. It goes through to Colonel Lear at La Croisset. Where to?"
"The blighter's in love with you." Sally flushed. After examining the evidence before her, she had reached the same conclusion in the privacy of her thoughts, but it embarrassed her to hear the thing put into bald words. "I know Bruce," continued Ginger, "and, believe me, he isn't the sort of cove to take any kind of flutter without a jolly good motive. Of course, he's got tons of money.
Probably he can't either just now, seeing what Durwent did to him. Of course, it's a rotten thing to say, but if the blighter's really going to die, I hope he's one of the seventeen who stand between me and the Earldom of Forth. There was a knock at the door, and an inquiry regarding the newly discovered author. 'Coming, called Maynard, reaching for the Daily Mail.
"I wish as 'ow we was a bit closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us. I'd like to get me 'and round some blighter's ugly neck, too." A second later a trench-mortar bomb came hurtling down through the air, and fell on the parados near the two men.
Tester repeated as far as he could remember the exact words. "Yes, you know; it was a bit hot, wasn't it? I expect you opened the blighter's eyes a bit. He wasn't used to that sort of literature." In spite of themselves Tester and Bradford laughed. They had been vaguely aware of a tired-looking figure in a Sam Browne as they left the canteen. He had looked "some ass."
Imagine, for a moment, that scene the three great ships going over like stricken whales, men slipping down their slimy flanks into the sea, boats overturned and smashed, in the thick of it the wet nose of the German submarine coming up for a look round, and then, out of that hideous welter, the voice of a sailor, the unalterable Briton in the face of all this modern science and sea magic, grabbing an anchor or whatever it was he saw first, and bellowing: "Smash the blighter's head!"
Stanistreet enquired, sitting down to con the papers more intently. "Oh!" Blensop laughed lightly. "I was merely repeating the blighter's own assertion. I mean to say, he boasted he was the Lone Wolf." "Who boasted he was the Lone Wolf?" "Chap who called to-night, giving the name of Duchemin Andre Duchemin. Had French passports, and letters from the Home Office recommending him rather highly.
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