“The corporal won't say.”
“Ole Corp. looks sort o' sick himself,” said Fuselli.
“It's this rotten climate” whispered Bill Grey, in the middle of a fit of coughing.
“For cat's sake quit that coughin'. Let a feller sleep,” came a voice from the other side of the tent.
“Go an' get a room in a hotel if you don't like it.”
“That's it, Bill, tell him where to get off.”
“If you fellers don't quit yellin', I'll put the whole blame lot of you on K. P.,” came the sergeant's good-natured voice.
“Don't you know that taps has blown?”
The tent was silent except for the fast patter of the rain and Bill Grey's coughing.
“That sergeant gives me a pain in the neck,” muttered Bill Grey peevishly, when his coughing had stopped, wriggling about under the blankets.