"Not if you can't grow any more than John!"
"I'm not fighting out of ambush like you!" replied John. "I haven't got a place for the birds to nest!"
"I'm going to trim mine down gradually," said another; "first an imperial and mustache with mutton choppers; then mow my cheeks; then a great, sweeping mustache; then a dandy little mustache; then—"
"Mow is the word! Don't inflict a barber!"
"And, after the bath, clean underclothes, and, oh, me!—a home dinner!"
"Stop with your home dinners! That's barred. Army biscuits!"
"Yes, we all prefer army biscuits!"
"We wouldn't touch a home dinner!"
Stransky, his eyes drawing inward in their characteristic slant, was well pleased with his company, and the scattered exclamatory badinage kept on until it was interrupted by the arrival of the mail. Partow and Lanstron, understanding their machine as human in its elements, had chosen that the army should hear from home.
"How's this!" exclaimed one man, reading from a newspaper. "They're going to put up a statue of Partow in the capital! It's to show him as he died, dropped forward on the map, and in front of his desk a field of bayonets. On one face of the base will be his name. Two of the other faces will have 'God with us!' and 'Not for theirs, but for ours!' The legend on the fourth face the war is to decide."