The Lord of the Heavies, a
charming fellow, nearly burst into tears when he heard of the ill he had
unwittingly done us, and was led home by William at 1.30 A.M., swearing to
withdraw his infernal machines, or beat them into ploughshares, the very
next day. The very next night our mess, without any sort of preliminary
warning, lost its balance, sat down with a crash, and lay littered about a
quarter of an acre of ground. We all turned out and miserably surveyed the
ruins. What had done it? We couldn't guess. The field guns had gone to
bye-bye, the Heavies had gone elsewhere. Hans, the Hun, couldn't have made
a mistake and shelled us? Never! It was a mystery; so we all lifted up our
voices and wailed for William. He was Mess President; it was his fault, of
course.
At that moment William hove out of the night, driving his tent before him
by bashing it with a mallet.
According to William there was one, "Sunny Jim," a morbid transport mule,
inside the tent, providing the motive power.
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