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An' besides, 'e sez, 'e reckons it's only a fair thing to smoke a cig'rette made wi' the larst chapter down the 'Igh Street o' Berlin the day Peace is declared. England. The wide door of the barn creaked open and admitted a swirl of sleety snow, a gust of bitter cold wind, and the Bombardier. A little group of men round a guttering candle-lamp looked up.
''Twould 'a' paid you better to 'ave kep' your 'baccy and made fags out o' it wi' cig'rette papers, said the Wheel Driver. 'Mebbe, agreed the Centre Driver. 'An' p'raps you'll tell me not being a Maskelyne an' Cook conjurer meself 'ow I'm to produce the fag-papers. The Gunner chuckled softly. 'You should 'a' done like old Pint-o'-Bass did, time we was on the Aisne, he said.
Soon as we was on the road the Left'nant gives the word to march at ease, an' lights up a cig'rette 'imself. "Great mornin' ain't it, Bombardier?" 'e sez. "Not more'n a foot or two o' mud on the roads, an' the temperature almost above freezin'-point. I'm just about beginnin' to like this job on the Am. Col. 'Ave you bin with a Battery out 'ere?"
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