kep' on arstin' me, 'Ain't yer wounded yet?' an' 'When are yer goin'
back?' But d'yer think they care a damn--Not they, you bet yer life on
it! _They_ don't want the war to stop--they're earnin' good money an' go
to dances an' cinemas. They'd start cryin' if we 'ad peace--I tell yer,
I was glad when me leave was over an' I was back wi' me mates. I won't
'alf throw me weight about when I gits out o' the army! I won't 'alf
raise 'ell--I'll 'ave a bloody revverlution, you see if I don't!..."

The shout of "Next man" sounded across from the theatre, and the
would-be destroyer of the social order got up and walked across.

"Where were you wounded?" asked one of the soldiers of his neighbour who
was drawing his breath in sharply between his lips, evidently being in
great pain.

"Near Eeps, [Ypres] by the Canal. A shell busted in front o' me an' a bit
copped me in the shoulder. Fritz was sending 'em over by the 'undreds,
whizz-bangs an' 'eavy stuff all mixed up--gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf give
yer what for!"

There was a temporary lull in the conversation and then a small, wiry,
spiteful looking Cockney spoke. He had reddish hair and big round
spectacles of the army pattern.

"I didn' 'alf do it on a Fritz afore I was wounded! 'E give 'isself up
an' I takes 'im along--I makes 'im walk in front o' me--yer can't take
no risks wi' them bastards. 'E turns rahnd an' says ter me in
English--'e must 'a' bin a clurk or a scholard--'e says, sarcastic like,
'I s'pose yer think yer goin' ter win the war!' I gets me rag out an'
tells 'im ter mind 'is own bleed'n' business. I tells 'im if I catch 'im