O it's a snug little island,
A right little tight little island."

He clutched the boy's shoulder, and thrust flaming eyes into his.

"Old man's got a game leg since Camperdown. Fust Lieutenant led the
landin party--Mr. Wrot. Dessay you've heard tell of him. Dry Wrot,
they called him. Tubby little bloke, all belly and big voice. Fine
chap to fight, though, be God--only so thirsty, same as me. He took
it in the tummy, crawlin through the embrasure--hand-grenade, I fancies.
I was next man on the ladder." He was marching up and down, his hands
swinging, seeming to smoulder almost in the gloom.

"Pretty work in the battery, be God, as ever I see!--One time we was
bungin round-shot at each other across the casement, like marbles.
Give the Mossoos their due they fought like eroes; but not like h'us,
sir! not like h'us!"

He strode up and down, breathing flame.

"Ah, you should ha seen us. I were in me glory. A bloody massacree,
that's what it were. Bloody massacree. Enough to make a blessed saint
weep for joy. Pommesoul it were."

He turned in his stride, and the lamp showed the tears dribbling down
his face.

"And when we'd mushed up the blanky caboodlum: spiked the guns; sent
the gunners to glory; and blow'd up the battery, who led the boys out?"