“It must be a hell of a ways to the town.... They say it's full of M. P.'s too,” said Fuselli.
“I know a way,” said the man with the nervous voice, “Come on; Tub.”
“No, I've had enough of these goddam frog women.”
They all left the canteen.
As the two men went off down the side of the building, Fuselli heard the nervous twitching voice through the metallic patter of the rain:
“I can't find no way of forgettin' how funny the helmets looked all round the lamp... I can't find no way.... ”
Bill Grey and Fuselli pooled their blankets and slept together. They lay on the hard floor of the tent very close to each other, listening to the rain pattering endlessly on the drenched canvas that slanted above their heads.
“Hell, Bill, I'm gettin' pneumonia,” said Fuselli, clearing his nose.
“That's the only thing that scares me in the whole goddam business. I'd hate to die o' sickness... an' they say another kid's kicked off with that—what d'they call it?—menegitis.”
“Was that what was the matter with Stein?”