“Good boy,” sez Poole.  “Let’s see.  I make it ’earts.” 
  “Doubled!” shouts Begg. . . .  “An’ ’e’s been in a fight,”
Sez Missus Flood, “out in them furrin’ parts. 
  French, I suppose.  I can’t pronounce it right. 
’E’s been once wounded, somewhere in the leg. . . .” 
“’Ere, Bill!  Yeh gone to sleep?” asks Peter Begg.

I plays me Queen uv Spades; an’ plays ’er bad. 
  Begg snorts. . . .  “My boy,” sighs Missus Flood.  “My Jim.” . . . 
“King ’ere,” laughs Poole.  “That’s the last Spade I ’ad.” . . . 
  Doreen she smiles:  “I’m glad yeh’ve ’eard from ’im.”. . . 
“We’re done,” groans Begg.  “Why did yeh nurse yer Ace?”. . . 
“My Jim!” An’ there was sunlight in ’er face.

“I always thought a lot uv Jim, I did,”
  Sez Begg. “’E does yeh credit.  ’Ere, your deal.” 
“That’s so,” sez Poole. “’E was an all-right kid. 
  No trumps?  I’m sorry that’s the way yeh feel. 
’Twill take yeh all yer time to make the book.” . . . 
An’ then Doreen sends me a wireless look.

I gets the S.O.S.; but Begg is keen. 
  “My deal,” ’e yaps.  “Wot rotten cards I get.” 
Ole Missus Flood sits closer to Doreen. 
  “The best,” she whispers, “I ain’t told yeh yet.” 
I strains me ears, an’ leads me King uv Trumps. 
“Ace ’ere!” grins Begg.  Poole throws ‘is Queen—­an’ thumps.

“That saves me Jack!” ’owls Begg.  “Tough luck, ole sport.” . . . 
  Sez Missus Flood, “Jim’s won a medal too
For doin’ somethin’ brave at Bullycourt.” . . . 
  “Play on, play on,” growls Begg.  “It’s up to you.” 
Then I reneges, an’ trumps me partner’s Ace,
An’ Poole gets sudden murder in ’is face.

“I’m sick uv this ’ere game,” ’e grunts.  “It’s tame.” 
  “Righto,” I chips.  “Suppose we toss it in?”
Begg don’t say nothin’; so we sling the game. 
  On my wife’s face I twigs a tiny grin. 
“Finished?” sez she, su’prised.  “Well, p’r’aps it’s right. 
It looks to me like ’earts was trumps to-night.”

An’ so they was.  An’, say, the game was grand. 
  Two hours we sat while that ole mother told
About ’er Jim, ’is letter in ’er ’and,
  An’, on ‘er face, a glowin’ look that rolled
The miles all up that lie ‘twixt France an’ ’ere,
An’ found ‘er son, an’ brought ’im very near.

A game uv Bridge it was, with ’earts for trumps. 
  We was the dummies, sittin’ silent there. 
I knoo the men, like me, was feelin’ chumps: 
  Foolin’ with cards while this was in the air. 
It took Doreen to shove us in our place;
  An’ mother ’eld the lot, right from the Ace.

She told us ’ow ’e said ’e’d writ before,
  An’ ’ow the letters must lave gone astray;
An’ ’ow the stern ole father still was sore,
  But looked like ‘e’d be soft’nin’, day by day;
’Ow pride in Jim peeps out be’ind ’is frown,
An’ ’ow the ole fool ’opes to ’ide it down.

“I knoo,” she sez.  “I never doubted Jim. 
  But wot could any mother say or do
When pryin’ folks asked wot become uv ’im,
  But drop ‘er eyes an’ say she never knoo. 
Now I can lift me ’ead to that sly glance,
An’ say, ‘Jim’s fightin’, with the rest, in France.’”