"That saves me Jack!" 'owls Begg. "Tough luck, ole sport." . . .
Sez Missus Flood, "Jim's won a medal too
For doin' somethin' brave at Bullycourt." . . .
"Play on, play on," growls Begg. "It's up to you."
Then I reneges, an' trumps me partner's Ace,
An' Poole gets sudden murder in 'is face.

"I'm sick uv this 'ere game," 'e grunts. "It's tame."
"Righto," I chips. "Suppose we toss it in?"
Begg don't say nothin'; so we sling the game.
On my wife's face I twigs a tiny grin.
"Finished?" sez she, su'prised. "Well, p'r'aps it's right.
It looks to me like 'earts was trumps to-night."

An' so they was. An', say, the game was grand.
Two hours we sat while that ole mother told
About 'er Jim, 'is letter in 'er 'and,
An', on 'er face, a glowin' look that rolled
The miles all up that lie 'twixt France an' 'ere,
An' found 'er son, an' brought 'im very near.

A game uv Bridge it was, with 'earts for trumps.
We was the dummies, sittin' silent there.
I knoo the men, like me, was feelin' chumps:
Foolin' with cards while this was in the air.
It took Doreen to shove us in our place;
An' mother 'eld the lot, right from the Ace.

She told us 'ow 'e said 'e'd writ before,