Jo tried to escape the mud and made for the roadside, but the ground
moved under her and some muttered curses arose. She was walking not on
grass but on crowds of sleeping boys, and very nearly trod on a face. We
settled down again on our mackintosh sheet but did not sleep. Some
soldiers were firing off guns and throwing bombs into the river all
night. Near us lay Owen, who coughed for a couple of hours, after which
he gave up the spot as being too wet, and lay in a cart on Whatmough's
face.
It rained, Jo had the fidgets, and Jan expostulated. The mackintosh was
too small for us and we got gloriously wet. It is a curious feeling--the
rain pattering on one's face when trying to sleep. By the time one
becomes accustomed to the monotony of the tiny drops--_splash_ a big
drop from a tree. Water collects in folds of hat or rug, and suddenly
cascades down one's neck.
At four in the morning the corporal crept up submissively to ask if we
might move on, as the horses were cold and hungry.
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