But in those days Tiadatha Didn’t mind the crumps a little. Laughed to hear them rustling over All the time that he was shaving, Laughed to see a couple bursting In a traverse near his dug-out, As he laughed at Cloe’s sallies On the day when first he met her In her dressing-room at Daly’s. CHAPTER VI TIADATHA’S JOURNEY As the Dudshires were preparing For a winter in the trenches, Just as they were getting settled In their sector of the trenches, Came an order for their moving To an unknown destination— Sudden as a German flare-light To a midnight working party, Unexpected as a kidney To a quartermaster-sergeant. There were many speculations As to what was going to happen, Many arguments about it, Many wagers laid about it, Many strange unholy rumours. In the mighty British Army Rumour is the only issue That arrives at units larger Than it leaves the Base Supply Park. Up it comes without an indent (Possibly in lieu of lime-juice), Heaven only knows its maker; Like a toy balloon it swells up, Gently growing big and bigger; At the Dump the Mr. Knowalls Have a blow to make it fatter, Pass it on to Transport drivers, Who in their turn puff their hardest, Make it change its shape a little, Hand it over with the rations. Then the minions of the Q.M. Do their little bit to help it, After which the Sergeant-Major Takes a lusty breath to fix it, Sends it up into the trenches As a full-blown Army rumour. Fast and thick as flying fishes Rise and dive in the Pacific, Rumours came and went in those days. Sending off the whole battalion On a mission to the Aztecs, As town guard of Buenos Ayres, Or to fight beside the Russians, Or to sail for Salonica. And the last seemed most fantastic, Tiadatha laughed the loudest, Laying 9 to 2 against it. After several days of waiting, Being issued out with goatskins, Issued out with leather jerkins (Fuel to the rumour-mongers), Came a very trying night march To a dreary railway station. As they neared the railway station Rose before my Tiadatha Visions of a Pullman carriage, Or at least a third-class smoker, And he called to mind the adage, “Third-class riding’s always better, Better far than first-class walking.” Bitterly the Dudshires grumbled, When they found their third-class riding Was to be in old horse-boxes, Squashed like figs and not so comfy: Thirty-nine at first were crammed in, Then another and another, Then a pile of army blankets, Then their overcoats in bundles.