“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Was Sergeant Johnson there?”
“No,” answered Davies. “He came later. I said to Lewis just now, ‘What about that coal?’ And he said Sergeant Johnson came just after and started kicking up some bit of a row, sir, about some coal; but Lewis, he said he didn’t know nothing about any coal, and the man at the horse he didn’t know who I was, sir; it was quite dark, you see, sir. Lewis said Sergeant Johnson got the wind up a bit, sir, about losing the coal....”
“Look here Davies,” I remarked solemnly, “do you realise that that coal was for headquarters ...”
“But I can,” said I. “Look here, you must just set a limit somewhere. I know I said you _must_ get some coal, somewhere. But I wasn’t exactly thinking of bagging the C.O.’s coal. As a matter of fact he was slightly annoyed, though doubtless if he knew it was No. 14 Davies, “B” Company orderly, he would abate his wrath. Do you realise this is a very serious offence?”
Davies’ mouth wavered. He could never quite understand this method of procedure. He looked at the blazing fire, and his eyes twinkled. Then he understood.
“All right,” I replied. “Don’t let it occur again.”
And it never did--at least, not headquarters coal.
We did not get back to Morlancourt till nearly half-past three the next day. Things were not going well in our billet at the butcher’s shop. Gray, the cook, and two of the servants had been sent on early to get the valises from the quartermaster’s stores, and to have a meal ready. We arrived to find no meal ready, and what was worse, the stove not lit. Coal could not be had from the stores, was the statement that greeted us.
“What the blazes do you mean?” shouted Dixon. We were really angry as well as ravenous; for it was freezing hard, and the tiles on the floor seemed to radiate ice-waves.
“Have you asked Madame if she can lend us a little to go on with?” I queried.
Then followed a blaze of vituperation, and Richards was sent at the double into the kitchen. Soon Madame appeared, with sticks and coal, and lit the fire. We watched the crackles, too cold to do anything else. The adjoining room, where Dixon and I slept, was an ice-house, also tiled. It was too cold to talk even.
“C’est froid dans les tranchés,” said I in execrable French.