"Where did you get this hut?"
"Found it."
"On Ripilly wharf?"
"Certainly not. I found it down there by the road and had it brought
up here for safety. If a lorry had run over it in the dark--"
"Ah, cut it out," he said. "The hut is mine. I found two odd sections
in the last barge-load. Any poacher who knew his job would burn the
feathers when he cooked the bird. You needn't start to explain about
your fool N.C.O., who made a mistake. I keep that sort of N.C.O.
myself. _If_ I get an official inquiry about this hut I shall send
back official information."
"Right-o! Then come in and have a drink, and don't be official before
you need."
That's where I was wrong. I tried to enlist the blighter's sympathy.
Showed him round camp, the view, the bathing--everything. When
Simmonds came up from the river with a string of roach Chaucer
admitted it was a truly _bon_ billet.
Next day he called again with one of his subalterns, a creature called
Gubson, who went down to the river to watch Simmonds fish. When he had
gone Chaucer told me he had a spare hut.
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