“How much?”
“A franc; one of those looks like a quarter,” said the “Y” man, his well-fed voice full of amiable condescension.
“That's a hell of a lot for a cup of chauclate,” said Fuselli.
“You're at the war, young man, remember that,” said the “Y” man severely. “You're lucky to get it at all.”
A cold chill gripped Fuselli's spine as he went back to the stove to drink the chocolate. Of course he mustn't crab. He was in the war now. If the sergeant had heard him crabbing, it might have spoiled his chances for a corporalship. He must be careful. If he just watched out and kept on his toes, he'd be sure to get it.
“And why ain't there no more chocolate, I want to know?” the nervous voice of the man who had stood in line behind Fuselli rose to a sudden shriek. Everybody looked round. The “Y” man was moving his head from side to side in a flustered way, saying in a shrill little voice:
“I've told you there's no more. Go away!”
“You ain't got no right to tell me to go away. You got to get me some chocolate. You ain't never been at the front, you goddam slacker.” The man was yelling at the top of his lungs. He had hold of the counter with two hands and swayed from side to side. His friend was trying to pull him away.
“Look here, none of that, I'll report you,” said the “Y” man. “Is there a non-commissioned officer in the hut?”
“Go ahead, you can't do nothin'. I can't never have nothing done worse than what's been done to me already.” The man's voice had reached a sing-song fury.