“For God's sake beat it, Chris. I'm all right,” Al was saying in a weak, whining voice, his face twisted up by pain.
“What's the matter?” cried Andrews, putting down a large bundle.
“Slippery's seen a M. P. nosin' around in front of the gin mill.”
“Good God!”
“They've beat it.... The trouble is Al's too sick.... Honest to gawd, Ah'll stay with you, Al.”
“No. If you know somewhere to go, beat it, Chris. I'll stay here with Al and talk French to the M. P.'s if they come. We'll fool 'em somehow.” Andrews felt suddenly amused and joyous.
“Honest to gawd, Andy, Ah'd stay if it warn't that that sergeant knows,” said Chrisfield in a jerky voice.
“Beat it, Chris. There may be no time to waste.”
“So long, Andy.” Chrisfield slipped out of the door.
“It's funny, Al,” said Andrews, sitting on the edge of the bed and unwrapping the package of food, “I'm not a damn bit scared any more. I think I'm free of the army, Al.... How's your hand?”