“Is there a non-commissioned officer in the room?” The “Y” man kept looking from side to side. His little eyes were hard and spiteful and his lips were drawn up in a thin straight line.
“Keep quiet, I'll get him away,” said the other man in a low voice. “Can't you see he's not...?”
A strange terror took hold of Fuselli. He hadn't expected things to be like that. When he had sat in the grandstand in the training camp and watched the jolly soldiers in khaki marching into towns, pursuing terrified Huns across potato fields, saving Belgian milk-maids against picturesque backgrounds.
“Does many of 'em come back that way?” he asked a man beside him.
“Some do. It's this convalescent camp.” The man and his friend stood side by side near the stove talking in low voices.
“Pull yourself together, kid,” the friend was saying.
“All right, Tub; I'm all right now, Tub. That slacker got my goat, that was all.”
Fuselli was looking at him curiously. He had a yellow parchment face and a high, gaunt forehead going up to sparse, curly brown hair. His eyes had a glassy look about them when they met Fuselli's. He smiled amiably.
“Oh, there's the kid who's seen Fritzies' helmets in the movies.... Come on, buddy, come and have a beer at the English canteen.”
“Can you get beer?”