“Yes, I remember,” Tom responded in tone so obviously sympathetic as merely to aggravate the victim of the story further.
“Well, as I stood there with the relay men of the other teams,” Ollie continued, “and as one after another they were touched off and were away, I kept wondering and wondering what in the world could have happened to Harper, and—”
“You’ve said all that at least a dozen times before,” the latter interjected again. “What’s the idea of—”
“And finally the last man was away, and still I stood there, just wondering and wondering—”
“And wondering, like a blamed idiot,” Harper shot out again, in deep disgust.
Ollie went on as though there had not been an interruption to his reminiscence.
“At last I gave up in despair and trudged back to Brighton. Remember,” to Tom, “the race was over before George ever stopped. Didn’t even hesitate until he’d reeled off about five miles, and then it took him an hour to get back, after he’d realized he was away up the county and far off the course of the race. Well, I just recalled how I felt, when I was waiting there for something to happen, and nothing did. I was thinking that those Germans, waiting for that mine to explode and send us all into Eternity, must have felt somewhat the same way as I did.”
“Huh!” George Harper grunted, in deep disgust. But Tom and Ollie burst into laughter which was none the less uproarious if suppressed by the necessities of their present situation; and their merriment was not so much at the predicament of the Germans, if the truth be told, as in the mischievous delight they took in the increased misery with which Harper heard this oft’ repeated tale of his mistake in that Brighton relay race.
“Think you’re smart Alecks, both of you, don’t you?” Harper growled, from the depths of his blanket, while distinct gasps of amusement continued to come from Tom and Ollie as they wrapped themselves in theirs; but a few moments later all three were sleeping as soundly and as peacefully as though nothing more serious than the story just told had disturbed the quiet routine and happiness of their lives.
And thus, too dog-tired even for dreams, as oblivious to all that was going on about them as they were themselves for the time completely forgotten by the officers and men of their own company, they slept on and on, hour after hour, unmindful and unknowing that overhead—above the dark and hidden hole in which they lay unheeded—their own advance army had moved out, and entirely vanished in pursuit of the enemy; the whole American movement pushing forward, circling about them, leaving them alone, forgotten, abandoned.