The rain was pouring perpendicularly from a leaden sky and drenching
the decks. The soldiers, in their great-coats, huddled together as
they waited for the boats, and shrugged their shoulders to keep the
drops from trickling down the napes of their necks. Somebody gave
Tristram a great-coat and knapsack, and pointed out the group to
which he was to attach himself. He obeyed, though scarcely aware of
what he did: for his head was light, his hunger was ravenous, and his
legs were trembling beneath him. A soldier cursed close by, and he
cursed too, echoing the man's words without knowing why. Another man
slapped him on the back, mistaking him for a crony, and begged his
pardon. "It really makes no difference," said Tristram politely, and
at once fell to wondering if this remark were absurd or no. Beyond
the grey veils of rain he spied, now and then, a cluster of red roofs
and a steeple close beside the shore.
"What place is that yonder?" he asked the man who stood at his elbow.
"Vlaardingen," said the fellow gruffly. It was Sergeant Klomp, and
Tristram turned it over in his mind whether to offer an apology or
no. While he was still debating, a brisk young officer came along
and called out:
"Get ready, boys.
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