He turned in at once. Hal followed suit, making himself as comfortable as possible in a bunk across the little room.
Outside the heavy cannonading continued without cessation.
Two hours later—it may have been 4 o’clock in the morning—Hal was awakened by a rough hand on his shoulder and the sound of a rough voice.
“Come up out of there,” said the voice. “This war has reached a pretty pass when a man can’t go out for a few minutes without somebody stealing his bunk.”
Hal, still half asleep, sat up.
“What’s the row?” he wanted to know.
“What’s the row?” repeated the man who stood above him. “I like that. I come back to my own little bunk, find it occupied and the occupant wants to know what’s the row. Why shouldn’t there be a row, I’d like to know?”
Hal got slowly to his feet and gazed at the man who had thus rudely disturbed his slumber.
“A marine, eh?” he said.
“Right,” was the reply. “Lieutenant Ulysses Smith, of the —th division. I’m obliged to you for keeping my bed warm, but if it’s all the same to you, I’m ready to climb in myself.”