Отрывок из книги
Mary Grant Bruce
Published by Good Press, 2021
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“Why, he couldn’t miss you!” said Norah, laughing. “Come on.”
Even when more than a year of War had made uniform a commonplace in London streets, you might have turned to look at Jim and Wally. Jim was immensely tall; his chum little less so; and both were lean and clean-shaven, tanned to a deep bronze, and stamped with a look of resolute keenness. In their eyes was the deep glint that comes to those who have habitually looked across great spaces. The type has become familiar enough in London now, but it generally exists under a slouch hat; and these lads were in British uniform, bearing the badges of a famous marching regiment. At first they had hankered after the cavalry, being much more accustomed to ride than to walk: but as the armies settled down into the Flanders mud it became increasingly apparent that this was not to be a horseman’s war, and that therefore, as Wally put it, if they wanted to be in the fun, they had better make up their minds to paddle with the rest. The amount of “fun” had so far been a negligible quantity which caused them some bitterness of spirit. They earnestly hoped to increase, it as speedily as might be, and to give the Hun as much inconvenience as they could manage in the process.
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