lighted room, scanning the recumbent figures to discover whether they were asleep. Men were lying, their shoes beside their heads, their army packs, rifles, leaning against the wall and the remainder of their equipment scattered near by. They were silent, motionless.

“I guess I can risk it,” thought Pugh, and he carefully struck the match and lighted his cigarette.

As the match was rubbed over the floor heads appeared; the stillness was broken.

“Oh, Jack, thought you didn’t have any more cigarettes.”

“You got fifty francs offa me last month. I think you ought to give me a smoke!” The voice was reproachful.

Effectually and instantly Pugh checked the avalanche of reproach:

“Hey, you fellas, there’s beaucoup mail up at regimental headquahtas.”

[7]

[7]

The clumsy shadows in the darkened room answered:

“Aw bunk.”

“Cut out that crap.”

“How do you get that way, Jack? You know there ain’t no mail up at regimental.”

“Well,” Pugh sighed, “if you all don’ wanna heah f’m your mammy I don’ give a damn.... Oh-o. What you all got, Hicks?”

Hicks had arrived at his billet, his arms filled with the bottles of wine and the cans of the questionable contents.

Candles were lighted and set on the helmets of the men. Bodies rose to a sitting posture, eyes on Hicks.

“Gimme a drink, Hicksy!”

“Hooray, look what Hicks’s got.”

“Yeh, gimme a drink.”

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