Roth broke into a hearty laughter. He slapped his pocket jocularly, and the jingling sound of gold and silver met their ears. Then he gulped down another glassful of the delicious wine.
“Why don’t you drink, Schmitz? I suppose you are full.”
“As to that, no; that takes longer. Prosit!”
In this style the conversation proceeded, and when they had emptied their third bottle it was very evident that they had drunk about as much as was good for them. Their eyes had assumed a glassy stare, and their faces were scarlet. Moreover, their speech was loud and blustering, and Roth, particularly, was unable longer to talk coherently, except with difficulty.
Suddenly he looked at the clock. “Six, by thunder. Time to look after the stables!”
“Yes, let’s go,” said Schmitz; “we must get to the stables, the beasts are hungry!”
They arose reeling. Roth girded his loins with his sabre, and both of them went clattering down the stone stairs of the barracks. The sabre struck the steps all along, as Roth descended heavily, and there was a terrific noise.
Several soldiers stuck out their heads as the two went along; and when they noticed their intoxicated superiors they quickly retreated into their own rooms, saying: “They surely have enough! If one of us went about in that way we’d be ripe for a pretty long term in the cooler.”
At the turn of the corridor Dietrich, a good-service man belonging to the fourth squadron, stepped up to Roth and said: “I’d like to ask the Herr ‘Vice’ for some coal for Room X. My men have been out in the rain foraging, and all of us are wet to the skin. It is very cold upstairs, and unless we can heat the stove our clothes will not dry till to-morrow.”
“What! Coal? Go to the quartermaster, you loafers; I haven’t any coal for you!” spluttered Roth with a heavy tongue.