“How did you get a pass?” Eisenstein was asking.
“Oh, the sergeant fixed me up with one,” answered Fuselli mysteriously.
“You're in pretty good with the sergeant, ain't yer?” said Eisenstein.
Fuselli smiled deprecatingly.
“Say, d'ye know that little kid Stockton?”
“The white-faced little kid who's clerk in that outfit that has the other end of the barracks?”
“That's him,” said Eisenstein. “I wish I could do something to help that kid. He just can't stand the discipline.... You ought to see him wince when the red-haired sergeant over there yells at him.... The kid looks sicker every day.”
“Well, he's got a good soft job: clerk,” said Fuselli.
“Ye think it's soft? I worked twelve hours day before yesterday getting out reports,” said Eisenstein, indignantly. “But the kid's lost it and they keep ridin' him for some reason or other. It hurts a feller to see that. He ought to be at home at school.”
“He's got to take his medicine,” said Fuselli.