"Wish I was!" ejaculated Jenks.

"Good chap," replied the Major. "Pity more of your sort don't come over.
When I was up at Loos, September last year, we didn't see a padre in
three months. Then they put on a little chap--forget his name--who used
to bike over when we were in rest billets. But he wasn't much use."

"I was in hospital seven weeks and never saw one," said Jenks.

"Good heavens!" said Graham. "But I've been trying to get out for
all these years, and I was always told that every billet was taken
and that there were hundreds on the waiting list. Last December the
Chaplain-General himself showed me a list of over two hundred names."

"Don't know where they get to, then, do you, Bevan?" asked Jenks.

"No," said the Major, "unless they keep 'em at the base."

"Plenty down at Rouen, anyway," said Donovan. "A sporting little blighter
I met at the Brasserie Opera told me he hadn't anything to do, anyway."

"I shall be a padre in the next war," said Jenks, stretching out his
legs. "A parade on Sunday, and you're finished for the week. No orderly
dog, no night work, and plenty of time for your meals. Padres can always
get leave too, and they always come and go by Paris."

Donovan laughed, and glanced sideways at Peter. "Stow it, Jenks," he
said. "Where you for, padre?" he asked.

"I've got to report at Rouen," said Peter. "I was wondering if you were