H.P. Jenks, Second-Lieutenant A.S.C., regarded him seriously. "It
couldn't be done, padre," he said, "not at this hour of the morning. I
left Ealing about midnight more or less, got sandwiched in the Metro with
a Brigadier-General and his blooming wife and daughters, and had to wait
God knows how long for the R.T.O. If I couldn't get a seat and a break
after that, I'd be a casualty, sure thing."

"It's your own fault for going home last night," observed the Major
judiciously. (Peter noticed that he was little older than Jenks on
inspection.) "Gad, Donovan, you should have been with us at the Adelphi!
It was some do, I can tell you. And afterwards..."

"Shut up, Major!" cut in Jenks. "Remember the padre."

"Oh, he's broad-minded I know, aren't you, padre? By the way, did you
ever meet old Drennan who was up near Poperinghe with the Canadians? He
was a sport, I can tell you. Mind you, a real good chap at his job, but a
white man. Pluck! By jove! I don't think that chap had nerves. I saw him
one day when they were dropping heavy stuff on the station, and he was
getting some casualties out of a Red Cross train. A shell burst just down
the embankment, and his two orderlies ducked for it under the carriage,
but old Drennan never turned a hair. 'Better have a fag,' he said to the
Scottie he was helping. 'It's no use letting Fritz put one off one's
smoke.'"

Peter said he had not met him, but could not think of anything else to
say at the moment, except that he was just going out for the first time.

"You don't say?" said Donovan dryly.