"I never did show you the pictures of my folks, did I?" asked Bill of Ernest. He went over to the lockers.
"Darn these lockers," he laughed. "They are exactly alike. I never know which is mine."
"Yours is next the window," said Frank, "and mine is always locked."
"They are both locked now, as it happens," said Bill. He went over to the dresser and picked up a key. "That doesn't look like mine," he said, squinting at it.
"Mine is in my pocket," said Frank.
Bill took the key and opened the locker. He tipped up a corner of the tray and felt under it, drawing out a square photograph case.
"Our folks fitted us out just alike as to kit bags and toilet sets and photograph cases," said Bill, coming over toward the light with the case. It slipped out of his hand as he spoke and he made a grab for it, catching it by one corner. A photograph and a long envelope fluttered to the floor.
"This isn't—" said Bill, then stopped and glanced at Frank who was lying on his back on the bed with both legs in the air, unfastening his puttees. With trembling fingers Bill seized the paper and scanned it. He took one look at its contents and for a moment stood as though turned to stone.
He passed a shaking hand across his forehead, then in a terrible voice he cried:
"Anderson, you—you—you thief, I've got you! Oh, you dog, I've got you!"