y tyke, 'e is," snarled Ginger.

"Well," remarked Bindle, "you can call the Germans ruddy tykes.
Pleasant way you got o' puttin' things, 'aven't you, Ging? No; ole
son, this 'ere war ain't a-goin' to end till you got the V.C., that's
wot we're 'oldin' out for."

"They could make peace if they liked," persisted Ginger.

"You won't get Llewellyn John to give in, Ging," said Bindle
confidently. "'E's 'ot stuff, 'e is."

"Yus!" growled Ginger savagely. "All 'e's got to do is to stay at 'ome
an' read about wot us chaps are doin' out there."

"Now ain't you a regular ole yellow-'eaded 'Uggins," remarked Bindle
with conviction, as he gazed fixedly at Ginger, whose eyes shifted
about restlessly. "Why, 'e's always at work, 'e is. Don't even 'ave
'is dinner-hour, 'e don't."

"Wot!" Ginger's incredulity gave expression to his features. "No
dinner-hour?"

"No; nor breakfast-time neither," continued Bindle. "There's always a
lot o' coves 'angin' round a-wantin' to talk about the war an' wot to
do next. When 'e's shavin' Haig'll ring 'im up, 'im a-standin' with
the lather on, makin' 'is chin 'itch."

Ginger banged down his pewter on the counter and ordered another.

"Then sometimes, when 'e's gettin' up in the mornin', George Five'll
nip round for a jaw, and o' course kings can go anywhere, an' you
mustn't keep 'em waitin'. So up 'e goes, an' there's L.J. a-talkin' to
'imself as 'e tries to get into 'is collar, an' George Five a-'elpin'
to find 'is collar-stud when 'e drops it an' it rolls under the chest
o' drawers."

Ginger continued to gaze at Bindle with surprise stamped on his
freckled face.

"You got a kid's job to 'is, Ging," continued Bindle, warming to his
subject. "If Llewellyn John 'ops round the corner for a drink an' to
'ave a look at the papers, they're after 'im in two ticks. Why 'e's
'ad to give up 'is 'ot bath on Saturday nights because 'e was always
catchin' cold through nippin' out into the 'all to answer the
telephone, 'im in only a smile an' 'is whiskers."

Ginger spat, indecision marking the act.

"Works like a blackleg, 'e does, an' all 'e gets is blackguardin'.
No," added Bindle solemnly, "don't you never change jobs with 'im,
Ging, it 'ud kill you, it would really."

"I don't 'old wiv war," grumbled Ginger, falling back upon his main
line of defence. "Look at the price of beer!" He gazed moodily into
the depths of his empty pewter.

"Funny cove you are, Ging," said Bindle pleasantly.

Gi