Tom, too, looked sharply at his friend, but with other reason. For an instant he feared that the low laugh was the first hysteria which is the forerunner of one phase of shell shock—that dreaded punishment when taut nerves break, the mind snaps, and a strong man temporarily is transformed into a cowering, jabbering, pitiful hulk of his former self, actuated by one thought, escape from the thing that caused his mental wreck.
But Tom’s one quick glance was sufficient to assure him. To be sure Ollie showed the same evidences of fatigue as did the others; but all three had built up for themselves, in the sports and athletics at Brighton, constitutions which it would require far more than their experiences of the last twenty-four hours to break, harrowing as those experiences had been, and Ollie was only giving vent to amusement at a sudden thought that had flashed through his mind.
“What are you giggling at?” Harper demanded again, now only half awake.
“Remember that relay race at Brighton,” Ollie answered, “when you, Tom, ran the first mile, George the second, and I was to finish with the third?”
“Aw, can’t you ever forget that?” Harper interrupted, peevishly. “What’s the idea of rehashing that thing again?” he added, suddenly forgetting his sleepiness.
“I’m not rehashing it,” Ollie assured him, in soothing tones. “I was just thinking about it, that was all.”
“Well, what’s that got to do with us and this war?” George demanded, showing no disposition to abandon the subject which always was an unpleasant one to him.
“Oh, it just occurred to me that it was somewhat of a parallel case in a way.”
“What way?”
Tom also was evidencing an awakened interest, and cast another inquiring glance at Ollie.