"So you took on you the job of a beastly informer against both of them. . . . I shan't forget it." He said to himself:
"I'll get this fellow one day . . ." and he seemed to hear with pleasure the clicking and tearing of the scissors as, inside three parts of a hollow square, they cut off his stripes and badges.
McKechnie exclaimed:
"Good God, man, you aren't going out in nothing but your pyjamas. Put your slacks on under your British warm. . . ."
Tietjens said:
"Send the Canadian sergeant-major to me at the double. . . ." to the quarter. "My slacks are at the tailor's, being pressed." His slacks were being pressed for the ceremony of the signing of the marriage contract of Levin, the fellow who had interfered in his private affairs. He continued into the mealy broad face and vague eyes of the quartermaster: "You know as well as I do that it was the Canadian sergeant-major's job to report to me. . . . I'll let you off this time, but, by God, if I catch you spying round the officers' lines again you are for a D.C.M. . . ."
He wrapped a coarse, Red Cross, grey-wool muffler under the turned-up collar of his British warm.
"That swine," he said to McKechnie, "spies on the officers' lines in the hope of getting a commission by catching out ——— little squits like Pitkins, when they're drunk. . . . I'm seven hundred braces down. Morgan does not know that I know that I'm that much down. But you can bet he knows where they have gone. . . ."
McKechnie said:
