"Curse!" ejaculated Jenks. "I hate getting my traps together in a train,
and I loathe the mob on the boat."

"I don't see why you should," said Donovan. "I'm blest if I bother about
anything. The R.T.O. and the red-caps do everything, and you needn't even
worry about getting a Pullman ticket this way over. Hope it's not rough,
though." He let a window down and leaned out. "Looks all right," he
added.

Peter got up with the rest and began to hang things about him. His
staringly new Sam Browne irritated him, but he forgot it as the train
swung round the curve to the landing-stage.

"Get a porter and a truck, Donovan," said the Major, who was farthest
from the door.

They got out nonchalantly, and Peter lit a cigarette, while the others
threw remarks at the man as to luggage. Then they all trooped off
together in a crowd that consisted of every variety of rank and regiment
and section of the British Empire, plus some Waacs and nurses.

_The Pride of Folkestone_ lay alongside, and when they got there she
seemed already full. The four of them got jammed at the gangway and
shoved on board, handing in and receiving papers from the official at the
head as they passed him. Donovan was in front, and as he stepped on deck
he swung his kit-bag back to Peter, crying:

"Lay hold of that, padre, and edge across the deck. Get up ahead of the
funnel that side. I'll get chairs. Jenko, you rotter, get belts, and drop