Next morning, as they rode, Brigade behind them, through the streets of Béthune, Peter fumbled in his breeches pocket; found a coin; stretched it down to the boy trotting at Little Willie’s head; took the proffered paper; spread it on his saddle-peak.
“Any news?” asked the Weasel.
For answer, Peter held up the staring headlines.
“Great British Victory,” they read. “Triumph of Staff Work. Hill 70 Ours. Official.”
Peter ripped the paper to shreds; flung it in the gutter.
PART EIGHTEENRESPITE