So with his teeth bitten together and his nose curiously slightly lifted, like some creature that is vicious, and his eyes fixed and staring, he went through the morning's affairs drunk with anger and suppression. In his mind was one thing—Banford. He took no heed of all March’s outpouring: none. One thorn rankled stuck in his mind. Banford. In his mind, in his soul, in his whole being, one thorn rankling to insanity. And he would have to get it out. He would have to get the thorn of Banford out of his life, if he died for it.
With this one fixed idea in his mind, he went to ask for twenty-four hours leave of absence. He knew it was not due to him. His consciousness was supernaturally keen. He knew where he must go—he must go to the captain. But how could he get at the captain? In that great camp of wooden huts and tents, he had no idea where his captain was.
But he went to the officers' canteen. There was his captain standing talking with three other officers. Henry stood in the door-way at attention.
"May I speak to Captain Berryman?"—The captain was Cornish like himself.
"What do you want?" called the captain.
"May I speak to you, Captain?"
"What do you want?" replied the captain, not stirring from among his group of fellow officers.
Henry watched his superior for a minute without speaking.
"You won't refuse me Sir, will you?" he asked gravely.
"It depends what it is."
"Can I have twenty-four hours' leave?"
"No, you've no business to ask."
"I know I haven't. But I must ask you."
"You've had your answer."
"Don't send me away, Captain."
There was something strange about the boy as he stood there so everlasting in the door-way. The Cornish captain felt the strangeness at once, and eyed him shrewdly.
"Why, what's afoot?" he said, curious.
"I'm in trouble about something. I must go to Blewbury," said the boy.
"Blewbury, eh? After the girls?"
