“What's your name?” asked the lieutenant, speaking into the small nickel mirror, while he ran the safety razor obliquely across his throat. He stuttered a little. To Fuselli he seemed to speak like an Englishman.
“Fuselli.”
“Italian parentage, I presume?”
“Yes,” said Fuselli sullenly, dragging one of the cots away from the wall.
“Parla Italiano?”
“You mean, do I speak Eyetalian? Naw, sir,” said Fuselli emphatically, “I was born in Frisco.”
“Indeed? But get me some more water, will you, please?”
When Fuselli came back, he stood with his broom between his knees, blowing on his hands that were blue and stiff from carrying the heavy bucket. The lieutenant was dressed and was hooking the top hook of the uniform carefully. The collar made a red mark on his pink throat.
“All right; when you're through, report back to the Company.” The lieutenant went out, drawing on a pair of khaki-colored gloves with a satisfied and important gesture.
Fuselli walked back slowly to the tents where the Company was quartered, looking about him at the long lines of barracks, gaunt and dripping in the mist, at the big tin sheds of the cook shacks where the cooks and K. P.'s in greasy blue denims were slouching about amid a steam of cooking food.