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Updated: May 29, 2025
The second-class dining saloon of peace days had descended to becoming a fodder room for the horses, and outside its door gathered the boys clamouring for their loads, laughing and swearing and generally hindering Mac and his cobbers at their work.
His two cobbers had gone on to the top to dig him a grave, and had both been wounded by shrapnel. Mac and Smoky were sad.
The clay cliff dropped precipitously in front, and facing them in the opposite cliff were similar bivvies, with the inhabitants of whom Mac and his cobbers were in the way of exchanging friendly conversation at odd moments of the night or day. Perched here on their ledge of clay, the four lived a supremely happy life when at home.
Thoughts such as these, deep and sincere as they were, cast but a passing shadow over their careless, happy natures. Friends of bush-whacking and shepherding days, camp mates of the past, and casual cobbers in Cairene escapades day after day went West; and always there came the momentary sadness, and, maybe, the remark, "Poor old Bill. They hooked him this morning. He was a good old sport."
This bad going in the dark was pretty rough on the wounded man, but, like most in his condition, he stuck it splendidly, and was deeply grieved he was such a burden to his cobbers. At length they reached the dressing-station at the Cove, and placed him on a table in a room with sandbag walls. Several medical men examined the wound and spoke technically thereon.
The stretcher-party asked anxiously after his condition, and sought tidings also of cobbers who had been brought back earlier. Then they set off for the firing-line once more. The third dawn in this outpost affair was now lighting the eastern sky, beyond the hills where the night's fighting had taken place.
They were through too fast to draw fire from the busy groups of battle-crazed men, leaping across the square and into the first side street they could find. Then she slowed, and headed for the main street back to Legal territory. "Lucky we found a good car to steal," Mother Corey wheezed. He was puffing now, mopping rivulets of perspiration from his face. "I'm getting old, cobbers.
In the beam of Gordon's torch, a single figure lay sprawled out on the floor halfway to the rickety stairs to the main house. Mother Corey grunted, and moved quickly to the coughing, battered old air machine. His fingers closed a valve equipped with a combination lock. "They're all dead, cobbers," he wheezed. "Dead because a crook had to try his hand on a lock.
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