Free Behind the Lines by W. F.; Morris

out.
    He had taken less than five minutes to dress, but even so he was late; and he had never yet been late on parade. Sergeant Jameson called the men to attention and saluted. He looked strong and capable, standing there rigid in the sunlight. His sunburnt face was expressionless, but his blue grey eyes were very intelligent. “Damn the fellow,” thought Rawley, “he knows I’m not orderly officer.”
    Rumbald did not appear at breakfast, and it was after stables, as he was passing the mess, that Rawley heard the hearty voice calling him insistently by name. He looked in at the open window of the mess-room and saw Rumbald standing alone in the room, a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His cap and crop lay on the table. “Morning, Pete,” he cried cheerfully. “You’re in a hell of a hurry this morning. Whither away?”
    â€œThe section. Some people try to do their job—even in war time,” retorted Rawley cuttingly.
    Rumbald seemed to be unaware of the thrust. He smiled a comfortable, at-peace-with-all-the-world smileand held his glass to the light. “Let them get on with it then,” he answered cheerfully. “Nobody’s stopping them. Come and have a drink.”
    Rawley shook his head. “Had enough of that last night—and more.”
    Rumbald sauntered towards the window. “So did I,” he admitted disarmingly. “But hair of the dog that bit you, you know.” He leaned his elbows on the sill. “You won’t? Wise man, Pete,” he murmured paternally. “Drink has been the ruin of many better men than you and me.”
    â€œWhy not chuck it then?”
    Rumbald drained his glass and dragged a cigarette case from his pocket. “Why not!” he exclaimed as he selected a cigarette with leisurely care. “Alcoholic remorse is all very well if it isn’t carried too far. Make good resolutions by all means, Pete, lad: they purify the soul. But, Lord! what a dull world it would be if we kept to ’em! Take it from me, it’s a mistake to take life too seriously; you’ll find that out for yourself when you are my age.”
    â€œPerhaps,” retorted Rawley sceptically and turned away.
    â€œThe worst of you fellows is that you don’t enjoy life,” went on Rumbald imperturbably. “You get comfortably tight, but afterwards little conscience comes along and spoils it all. Why in hell be ashamed of a glorious binge?”
    â€œIt’s not that,” retorted Rawley hotly. He found Rumbald’s diagnosis of his feelings irritating.
    Rumbald blew a smoke ring. “And it’s the same with a woman. I bet you got sentimental and overpaid that tart last night—probably wanted to pi-jaw her afterwards. Whythe hell can’t you take what comes to you without being ruddy virtuous about it?”
    â€œAll the same,” he continued as Rawley turned angrily away. “Thanks very much for taking breakfast for me this morning—and bedding me down last night.”
    â€œOh, that’s all right,” called back Rawley, somewhat mollified at this recognition of his services.
    â€œOnly, Pete!” bellowed Rumbald after him, “for the Lord’s sake don’t be virtuous about it.”
    Rawley went off to the section in an ill temper. Rumbald had a knack of making one feel young and putting one in the wrong; and the irritating part of it was there was a grain of truth in what he had said.
    II
    Whedbee and the Major rode off for Doullens soon after lunch. Penhurst turned up shortly afterwards and suggested poker. Rawley declined, and Piddock said he did not know the game; but Penhurst and Rumbald offered to teach him, and Rawley left them hard at it round the mess table.
    He strolled out through the village and came to the fork roads by the A.S.C. billet. A long convoy of lorries was passing along the main road, and in order to get away from the