After the first two or three bags Andrews carried in the afternoon, it seemed as if every one would be the last he could possibly lift. His back and thighs throbbed with exhaustion; his face and the tips of his fingers felt raw from the biting cement dust.
When the river began to grow purple with evening, he noticed that two civilians, young men with buff-colored coats and canes, were watching the gang at work.
“They says they's newspaper reporters, writing up how fast the army's being demobilized,” said one man in an awed voice.
“They come to the right place.”
“Tell 'em we're leavin' for home now. Loadin' our barracks bags on the steamer.”
The newspaper men were giving out cigarettes. Several men grouped round them. One shouted out:
“We're the guys does the light work. Blackjack Pershing's own pet labor battalion.”
“They like us so well they just can't let us go.”
“Damn jackasses,” muttered Hoggenback, as, with his eyes to the ground, he passed Andrews. “I could tell 'em some things'd make their goddam ears buzz.”
“Why don't you?”