Behind the Lines by W. F.; Morris Page B

from somewhere and get into Armeens tonight. This simple life stunt is all right in small doses, but personally, I can’t work up much enthusiasm over watching the local ploughman homeward plod on his beery way. I think a drink at Charley’s Bar, and a dinner at the Godbert, is the right prescription. Are you game?”
    â€œSorry, but I’ve a previous engagement,” Rawley told him.
    â€œWhat, here in the wilds of Picardy!” Piddock exclaimed. He shook his head sanctimoniously. “Peterkins! Peterkins! You’re leading a double life, I fear—but couldn’t you lead me astray, too?”
    Rawley laughed. “As a matter of fact I’m going into Hocqmaison to see a divisional concert party—but it’s a secret. Come along, too, if you can keep it.”
    â€œWho provides transport?”
    â€œI’m borrowing one of the battery cycles.”
    â€œHoly Hindenburg! What, push-biking all the way!”
    Rawley nodded.
    Piddock spoke soothingly. “My dear old battle-scarred war horse, I hate to shatter your illusions, but the luscious damsels in divisional concert parties are reallyonly anaemic bombardiers dressed up in camisoles and what-you-may-call-ems.”
    Rawley grinned. “You silly ass, I’m not that type of fool. But there will be some real damsels there.”
    Piddock nodded uninterestingly. “Oh, I daresay—horny-handed Hebes from the local midden, with black woollen stockings on their fat legs and black-heads on their red faces.”
    â€œYou’re coarse,” Rawley told him. “But I don’t mean Picardy farm wives; I mean English girls.”
    â€œWhat! Oh, shut up, Rawley. You’re delirious.”
    â€œI mean it,” said Rawley.
    â€œWhat, little darlings with silk fetlocks and powdered noses?”
    Rawley nodded emphatically. “Yes—Army nursing sisters and lady ambulance drivers. There’s a C.C.S. in the next village. It’s one of those twin arrangements—one on each side of the stream.”
    â€œYou make me go all over alike. But there’s a catch in this somewhere. First of all, how do you know ( a ) that any of these she-angels of Mons will be at the divisional follies tonight, and ( b ) supposing they are there, that we shall click?”
    â€œThat’s the secret,” said Rawley. “Swear to keep it?”
    â€œWild whiz-bangs wouldn’t get it out of me, my old Hannibal.”
    â€œWell, the answer to ( a ) is that I know they are going to be there, because I heard one of them say so, and the answer to ( b ) is that I’ve already clicked.”
    Piddock smote his booted leg with his crop. “Stout feller. Outsize in stout fellers! Go on, my martial Romeo,” he cried lyrically. “Go on, walk march, tell me how you met Whiz-bang Winnie, the battlefield belle.”
    â€œShut up,” growled Rawley. “She’s too nice for that kind of rot. I met a little ambulance driver when I was in Doullens.”
    â€œAnd you arranged to go with her to this show tonight?”
    Rawley nodded.
    â€œStout feller! ‘A guardee or sapper may dazzle a flapper, but for women a gunner, what! What!’ ” carolled Piddock gaily. “And will there be any more little drivers there?”
    â€œProbably—but you will have to take your chance of that. Anyway, you keep off mine.”
    â€œSure thing, my dear old warrior. You registered first. I’ll be as discreet as a blind monk at a grandmother’s meeting.”
    II
    They left Rumbald in the mess making up to the adjutant from brigade headquarters, and rode off on two scarred green army bicycles. Piddock had not ridden a bicycle for some years, and his awkwardness was increased by the long field-boots and tight riding-breeches he was wearing. He wobbled erratically all over the road, but it was only when he locked handlebars with Rawley almost under the radiator of a passing staff