The quartermaster was disposed to argue the point. The blankets would all be wet and muddy, and damaged with coal cinders; but he was finally overruled.
The adjutant turned to look at the men. Their line had wabbled and showed strange gyrations.
"Will you men stand in line?" he cried. "How do any of you ever expect to succeed in life if you can't learn to stand in a straight line?" With which unanswerable argument and much pleased with his midnight philosophy, he relapsed into his customary genial smile.
At last the blankets were distributed, and in an hour the station platform and bridge over the tracks looked like the deck of an emigrant steamer. Wherever the eye reached, the dimly-lighted platform showed rows of sleeping men, rolled up and looking very like sacks of potatoes lying together.
Five of us officers turned into the expressman's hut, and in the dark fell into whatever corner was available. Reggy and I occupied either side of an unlighted stove, and throughout the jumpy watches of the night bruised our shins against its inhospitable legs.
Dawn was breaking, and breaking darkly, too, as the dim shadow of the expressman came stumbling across the platform through rows of growling men. At last he reached his office, and, all unconscious of our presence, stepped within. He stepped upon the sleeping form of the adjutant, and the form emitted a mighty roar. The expressman staggered back in amazement, giving vent to this weird epigram:
"Every bloomin' 'ole a sleepin' 'ole!"
"You'll 'ave to get up," he cried indignantly when he had recovered from his astonishment. "This ain't a bloomin' boardin'-'ouse!"
"Could you return in half an hour?" Reggy queried in drowsy tones, but without opening his eyes.
"No. I couldn't return in 'alf an hour," he mocked peevishly.