The company laughed again. Fuselli noticed with displeasure that the tall man with the shrill voice whose name had been called first on the roll did not laugh but spat disgustedly out of the corner of his mouth.
“Well, there are bad eggs in every good bunch,” thought Fuselli.
It gradually grew grey with dawn. Fuselli's legs were tired from standing so long. Outside all the barracks, as far as he could see up the street, men stood in ragged lines waiting.
The sun rose hot on a cloudless day. A few sparrows twittered about the tin roof of the barracks.
“Hell, we're not goin' this day.”
“Why?” asked somebody savagely.
“Troops always leaves at night.”
“The hell they do!”
“Here comes Sarge.”
Everybody craned their necks in the direction pointed out.