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But if Pint-o'-Bass does smoke more'n is good for 'im or any other respectable factory chimney, I'll admit the smoke 'asn't sooted up 'is intelleck none, an' 'e can wriggle 'is way out of a hole where a double-jointed snake 'ud stick.

An' durin' the Retreat, when, as you knows, cigarettes in the Expeditionary Force was scarcer'n snowballs in 'ell, ole Pint-o'-Bass managed to carry on, an' wasn't never seen without 'is fag, excep' at meal-times, an' sleep-times, an' they bein' so infrequent an' sketchy-like, them days, wasn't 'ardly worth countin'. 'Twas like this, see, that 'e managed it.

Them as didn't must 'ave gone into "Base kit," cos any'ow there wasn't one to be raked out o' the Battery later on excep' the one that Pint-o'-Bass was carryin'. Bein' pocket Testaments, they was made o' the thinnest kind o' paper an' Bass tole me the size worked out exackly right at two fags to the page.

The Gunner tapped out his pipe on the heel of his boot and began to re-fill it. 'If you'll believe me, he said, 'that padre got poor Soapy pinned down so he was readin' near a chapter a day which shows the 'orrible results that can come o' a little bit of simple deception. 'An' how is Pint-o'-Bass goin' on wi' his Testament? asked the Lead Driver.

''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.