The Gunner took a deep breath and looked hard at the objector. 'Well,'
he said, with studied calm, 'we'll s'pose your missis at 'ome there
wants to sen' you out some smokes. . . .'

'An s'pose she _does_ want to?' said the Wheel Driver truculently.
'Wot's it got to do wi' you, anyway?'

With lips pursed tight and in stony silence the Gunner glared at him,
and then, turning his shoulder, addressed himself deliberately to the
Lead Driver.

'S'pose _your_ missis . . .' he began, but got no further.

'He ain't got no missis; leastways, 'e ain't supposed to 'ave,' the
Wheel Driver interjected triumphantly.

That fact was well known to the Gunner, but had been forgotten by him
in the stress of the moment. He ignored the interruption, and
proceeded smoothly. 'S'pose your missis, if you 'ad one, w'ich you
'aven't, as I well knows, seein' me 'n' you walked out two sisters at
Woolwich up to the larst night we was there. . . .'

The Wheel Driver chuckled.

'Thought you was on guard the las' night we was in Woolwich,' he said.

'Will you shut your 'ead an' speak when you're spoke to?' said the
Gunner angrily.

'Never mind 'im, chum. Wot about this Gif' business?'

'Well,' said the Gunner, picking his words carefully. 'If a man's wife
_or_ gel _or_ sister _or_ friend wants to send 'im some smokes they
cuts this coo-pon, same's I've said, an' sends it up to the paper, wi'
sixpence an' the reg'mental number an' name of the man the gift's to go
to. An' the paper buys the 'baccy, gettin' it cheap becos o' buyin'
tons an' tons, an' sends a packet out wi the chap's number an' name and
reg'ment wrote on it. So 'e gets it. An' that's all.'

The Wheel Driver could contain himself no longer. 'An' how d'you
reckon I got this packet, an' no name or number on it--'cept a pos'card
wi' a name an' address wrote on as I never 'eard before?'

'Becos some good-'earted bloke in Blighty[1] that doesn't 'ave no pal
particular out 'ere asks the paper to send 'is packet o' 'baccy to the
O.C. to pass on to some pore 'ard-up orphin Tommy that ain't got no
'baccy nor no fren's to send 'im like, an' 'e issues it to you.'

'It ain't a issue,' persisted the Wheel Driver. 'It's a Gif. The
Quarter sed so 'isself.'

Splashing and squelching footsteps were heard outside, the door-curtain
swung aside, and the Centre Driver ducked in, took off a soaking cap,
and jerked a glistening spray off it into the darkness.

'Another fair _soor_ of a