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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

and shouts incessantly. "Good-bye-ee; don't cry-ee;
wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eye-ee," etc.
There is something a bit grown-up-babyish about
Marshall's good-humoured face; the song suits him
somehow!

Slept in the train again last night—alongside the
station platform—and had my watch stolen. (Pd put
it on my box-table near the window, so the thief had
only to put his hand in.) Luckily my fire-opal was
round my neck, but losing one's watch is pretty
serious. All sorts of officers here—many on their way
home on leave. Not many intelligent sensitive faces*
(The doctors look different from the others, mostly
with wise, kind faces.) The usual crowd playing
poker in the mess all the time. Staff-officers, colonels,
majors, Australians, flying-men—all sorts—their eyes
meet one's own for a moment and then slide down to
look for a medal-ribbon.

After dinner I came out into the chilly moonlight;
the moonlight-coloured bell-tents had tracery of
shadows on them from the poor old olive trees that
are left high and dry in this upstart camp, like wise
old men being mobbed. Someone was strumming on
a piano in the concert marquee behind our tent-
lines I lifted a flap and peered into fantastic dimness
where a few lights made a zany-show of leaping
shadows and swaying whiteness. On the stage (looked
at from behind) a group was rehearsing. A big man
was doing a bit of gag before stepping back two paces
To be^n his song. "Give 'em a bit of Fred Eameg*
someone shouted. Then a small man jumped into the
light and did some posturing-chm out and curved
Hebrew beak coming down to a tbn-hpped mou^
Another little Jew whispered to me (I was now
instde the tent)  "That's Sid Whelan-the other's