On
the seventh day I was accused, by good people who know not Thomas,
of being (1) a Russian, (2) an American, (3) a Belgian, and (4) an
Irishman, which made me feel that these gaudy colours I have burst
into are not so famous as I supposed; and on the eighth day I find
myself insulted in twenty-seven places by an angry mosquito, whom in
the small hours of the morning I had occasion to rap over the knuckles
and turn out of my billet. And I've got a nasty cold, and nobody loves
me or cleans my buttons, and if I want to go anywhere there are no
more motor cars and they make me pay a penny for the tram, and my wife
doesn't think I'm a hero any longer, and little James is being taught
to blush and look away and start another subject when anybody says
"Dad-dad," and (if you can believe this) I've just been made to pay a
franc-and-a-half for a tin of bully beef.
But you don't sympathise, not a bit of it; why should you? I
shouldn't if I were in your place. I should just cut off the supply
of cigarettes and shaving-soap, stop wishing me good luck, and, with
haughty contempt, say, "Call yourself a soldier!" Nevertheless, my
friend, whatever I may _be_, I _look_ extraordinarily magnificent, so
much so that a short-sighted Major has taken his pipe out of his mouth
as I have drawn near and has as good as saluted me.
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