the joke. He waved me farewell out of the hospital window by way of
emphasising this.

The Babe followed me out shortly after, bringing about fifty men with
him. He strolled into Mess one evening and mentioned quite casually
that The Beachcomber was in camp.

"How did you manage it?" we chorused in wonder.

"Heard the story of his leaving China and repeated the dose," the Babe
replied. "Just before the draft was warned, my batman led him down
to Mooney's shebeen and treated him to the run of his throat--at my
expense. He came all the way as baggage."

Thus did John Fanshawe complete the second stage of his journey to the
War. He did not remain with us long, however; a fortnight at the most.

We were doing some digging at the time, night-work, up forward, in
clay so glutinous it would not leave the shovels and had mainly to be
clawed out by hand--filthy, back-breaking, heart-rending labour. On
calling the roll one dawn I found that The Beachcomber was missing.

"Anybody seen anything of him?" I asked.

"Yessir, I did," a man replied, and spat disgustedly.

"Well," I inquired, "was he hit or anything?"

The man grunted, "No, Sir; I don't think 'e was 'it; I think 'e was
fed up. 'Call this war, do they?' says 'e to me. 'I call it blawsted