“The Internationale,” cried Al.
“Shut up,” said Chrisfield in a low gruff voice.
Through the silence of the room they heard steps on the stairs.
“All right, it's only Smiddy,” said Slippery, and he threw the dice down on the tiles again.
The door opened slowly to let in a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a long face and long teeth.
“Who's the frawg?” he asked in a startled way, with one hand on the door knob.
“All right, Smiddy; it ain't a frawg; it's a guy Chris knows. He's taken his uniform off.”
“'Lo, buddy,” said Smiddy, shaking Andrews's hand. “Gawd, you look like a frawg.”
“That's good,” said Andrews.
“There's hell to pay,” broke out Smiddy breathlessly. “You know Gus Evans and the little black-haired guy goes 'round with him? They been picked up. I seen 'em myself with some M. P.'s at Place de la Bastille. An' a guy I talked to under the bridge where I slep' last night said a guy'd tole him they were goin' to clean the A. W. O. L.'s out o' Paris if they had to search through every house in the place.”