“I reckon so,” was all he said. He sat down on the bench beside the other man who went on bitterly:
“I guess you would reckon so.... Hell, man, you ditch diggers ain't in it.”
“Ditch diggers!” The engineer banged his fist down on the table. His lean pickled face was a furious red. “I guess we don't dig half so many ditches as the infantry does... an' when we've dug 'em we don't crawl into 'em an' stay there like goddam cottontailed jackrabbits.”
“You guys don't git near enough to the front....”
“Like goddam cottontailed jackrabbits,” shouted the pickle-faced engineer again, roaring with laughter. “Ain't that so?” He looked round the room for approval. The benches at the two long tables were filled with infantry men who looked at him angrily. Noticing suddenly that he had no support, he moderated his voice.
“The infantry's damn necessary, I'll admit that; but where'd you fellers be without us guys to string the barbed wire for you?”
“There warn't no barbed wire strung in the Oregon forest where we was, boy. What d'ye want barbed wire when you're advancin' for?”
“Look here...I'll bet you a bottle of cognac my company had more losses than yourn did.”
“Tek him up, Joe,” said Toby, suddenly showing an interest in the conversation.
“All right, it's a go.”