Fuselli went back to the barracks, took off his pack and slicker and wiped the water off his face.
The rails gleamed gold in the early morning sunshine above the deep purple cinders of the track. Fuselli's eyes followed the track until it curved into a cutting where the wet clay was a bright orange in the clear light. The station platform, where puddles from the night's rain glittered as the wind ruffled them, was empty. Fuselli started walking up and down with his hands in his pockets. He had been sent down to unload some supplies that were coming on that morning's train. He felt free and successful since he joined the headquarters company! At last, he told himself, he had a job where he could show what he was good for. He walked up and down whistling shrilly.
A train pulled slowly into the station. The engine stopped to take water and the couplings clanked all down the line of cars. The platform was suddenly full of men in khaki, stamping their feet, running up and down shouting.
“Where you guys goin'?” asked Fuselli.
“We're bound for Palm Beach. Don't we look it?” someone snarled in reply.
But Fuselli had seen a familiar face. He was shaking hands with two browned men whose faces were grimy with days of travelling in freight cars.
“Hullo, Chrisfield. Hullo, Andrews!” he cried. “When did you fellows get over here?”
“Oh, 'bout four months ago,” said Chrisfield, whose black eyes looked at Fuselli searchingly. “Oh! Ah 'member you. You're Fuselli. We was at trainin' camp together. 'Member him, Andy?”
“Sure,” said Andrews. “How are you makin' out?”
“Fine,” said Fuselli. “I'm in the optical department here.”