hell out, sonny.”
“Well, who wouldn't be sore when they have to go on K.P.?” said Fuselli peevishly.
“I ain't been down to mess in three days. A feller who lives on the plains like I do ought to take to the sea like a duck, but it don't seem to suit me.”
“God, they're a sick lookin' bunch I have to sling the hash to,” said Fuselli more cheerfully. “I don't know how they get that way. The fellers in our company ain't that way. They look like they was askeered somebody was going to hit 'em. Ever noticed that, Meadville?”
“Well, what d'ye expect of you guys who live in the city all your lives and don't know the butt from the barrel of a gun an' never straddled anything more like a horse than a broomstick. Ye're juss made to be sheep. No wonder they have to herd you round like calves.” Meadville got to his feet and went unsteadily to the rail, keeping, as he threaded his way through the groups that covered the transport's after deck, a little of his cowboy's bow-legged stride.
“I know what it is that makes men's eyes blink when they go down to that putrid mess,” came a nasal voice.
Fuselli turned round.
Eisenstein was sitting in the place Meadville had just left.
“You do, do you?”
“It's part of the system. You've got to turn men into beasts before ye can get 'em to act that way. Ever read Tolstoi?”
“No. Say, you want to be careful how you go talkin' around the way you do.” Fuselli lowered his voice confidentially. “I heard of a feller bein' shot at Camp Merritt for talkin' around.”
“I don't care.... I'm a desperate man,” said Eisenstein.
“Don't ye feel sick? Gawd, I do.... Did you get rid o' any of it, Meadville?”
“Why don't they fight their ole war somewhere a man can get to on a horse?... Say that's my seat.”
“The
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