The youngster had spent four years in a reformatory; afterwards as a coster he presided over a barrow in a turning off Walworth Road. His pitch was one of the best in the locality. He fell in love with a girl who kept a barrow beside him. He often spoke of her to Bowdy Benners. "She's not 'arf a bird," he would say. "Nobody can take a mike out 'er. I'm goin' to get spliced after the war too." Near the stove sat the remaining soldier, an Irishman named Fitzgerald. He was a thin graceful fellow of about five-and-twenty, and could not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His lips full and red, his straight nose, delicate nostrils, black liquid eyes and long lashes betrayed a passionate and sensitive nature. He was a thoughtful man, grave and dutiful, but at times as petulant and perverse as a child. Even when most perverse he was good company. He was exceedingly superstitious. His thoughts generally wandered with startling suddenness from one subject to another but this was probably due to the use of strong drink. He had had a college education but took to drink early and squandered all his resources. Then he became a rover and wandered through many parts of the world as sailor, tramp and outcast. He had slept in doss-houses, on the pavements, in the fields. Once indeed he was a trombone player in the Salvation Army, and again he fought in a Mexican rebellion. Then he belonged to a regiment, the soldiers of which had to wear great coats on their triumphal march through a certain town because of the bad condition of their trousers. Fitz knew a smattering of most languages but vowed that he was only proficient in one--bad language. At present he was in a gay good humour and as he spoke to young Benners his voice, loud enough but very soft and pleasant, penetrated to the very corners of the inn. "Do you ever feel afraid, Bowdy?" he asked. "Funky, you know." Then, without waiting for an answer, he went on: "God! I do feel afraid, sometimes. Out on listening patrol. It's hell for a man with imagination. Crawling out in the darkness between the lines. You hear the grass whispering, and the darkness ahead of you may hide anything. An awful face covered with blood may rise up in front, a hand may come out and grasp you by the hair. The dead are lying around you, poor quiet creatures, but you know that they're stronger than you are. I often wish I couldn't think, that I lacked imagination, that I was a clod of earth, just something like that plebeian there." Fitzgerald raised his finger and pointed to Bubb who was rapping his idle fingers on the legs of his chair. Bubb gazed at Fitzgerald and laughed. "Fleebian," he exclaimed. "I know wot that is. We 'ad one but the wheel came off."