“Have a butt? I've got one,” said the legless man. With a large shrunken hand that was the transparent color of alabaster he held out a box of cigarettes.
“Thanks.” When Andrews struck a match he had to lean over the legless man to light his cigarette for him. He could not help glancing down the man's tunic at the drab trousers that hung limply from the chair. A cold shudder went through him; he was thinking of the zigzag scars on his own thighs.
“Did you get it in the legs, too, Buddy?” asked the legless man, quietly.
“Yes, but I had luck.... How long have you been here?”
“Since Christ was a corporal. Oh, I doan know. I've been here since two weeks after my outfit first went into the lines.... That was on November 16th, 1917.... Didn't see much of the war, did I?... Still, I guess I didn't miss much.”
“No.... But you've seen enough of the army.”
“That's true.... I guess I wouldn't mind the war if it wasn't for the army.”
“They'll be sending you home soon, won't they?”
“Guess so.... Where are you from?”
“New York,” said Andrews.