“Funny,” he said to Hoggenback, “it's not really as bad as I thought it would be.”
“What d'you mean, this labor battalion? Hell, a feller can put up with anything; that's one thing you learn in the army.”
“I guess people would rather put up with things than make an effort to change them.”
“You're goddam right. Got a butt?”
Andrews handed him a cigarette. They got to their feet and walked out into the twilight, holding their mess kits in front of them. As they were washing their mess kits in a tub of greasy water, where bits of food floated in a thick scum, Hoggenback suddenly said in a low voice:
“But it all piles up, Buddy; some day there'll be an accountin'. D'you believe in religion?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. I come of folks as done their own accountin'. My father an' my gran'father before him. A feller can't eat his bile day after day, day after day.”
“I'm afraid he can, Hoggenback,” broke in Andrews. They walked towards the barracks.
“Goddam it, no,” cried Hoggenback aloud. “There comes a point where you can't eat yer bile any more, where it don't do no good to cuss. Then you runs amuck.” Hanging his head he went slowly into the barracks.