“What the hell's the use? I ain't got the edication to talk up to guys like that.”
The sergeant, a short, red-faced man with a mustache clipped very short, went up to the group round the newspaper men.
“Come on, fellers, we've got a hell of a lot of this cement to get in before it rains,” he said in a kindly voice; “the sooner we get it in, the sooner we get off.”
“Listen to that bastard, ain't he juss too sweet for pie when there's company?” muttered Hoggenback on his way from the barge with a bag of cement.
The Kid brushed past Andrews without looking at him.
“Do what I do, Skinny,” he said.
Andrews did not turn round, but his heart started thumping very fast. A dull sort of terror took possession of him. He tried desperately to summon his will power, to keep from cringing, but he kept remembering the way the room had swung round when the M.P. had hit him, and heard again the cold voice of the lieutenant saying: “One of you men teach him how to salute.” Time dragged out interminably.
At last, coming back to the edge of the wharf, Andrews saw that there were no more bags in the barge. He sat down on the plank, too exhausted to think. Blue-grey dusk was closing down on everything. The Passy bridge stood out, purple against a great crimson afterglow.
The Kid sat down beside him, and threw an arm trembling with excitement round his shoulders.
“The guard's lookin' the other way. They won't miss us till they get to the truck.... Come on, Skinny,” he said in a low, quiet voice.