The young soldier smiled for the first time. “Thank you; I've got plenty.”
The nurse came by, and smiled at Pierson.
“He's one of our blase ones; been in before, haven't you, Simson?”
Pierson looked at the young man, whose long, narrow face; where one sandy-lashed eyelid drooped just a little, seemed armoured with a sort of limited omniscience. The gramophone had whirred and grunted into “Sidi Brahim.” The nurse passed on.
“'Seedy Abram,'.rdquo; said the young soldier. “The Frenchies sing it; they takes it up one after the other, ye know.”
“Ah!” murmured Pierson; “it's pretty.” And his fingers drummed on the counterpane, for the tune was new to him. Something seemed to move in the young man's face, as if a blind had been drawn up a little.
“I don't mind France,” he said abruptly; “I don't mind the shells and that; but I can't stick the mud. There's a lot o' wounded die in the mud; can't get up—smothered.” His unwounded arm made a restless movement. “I was nearly smothered myself. Just managed to keep me nose up.”
Pierson shuddered. “Thank God you did!”
“Yes; I didn't like that. I told Mrs. Lynch about that one day when I had the fever. She's a nice lady; she's seen a lot of us boys: That mud's not right, you know.” And again his unwounded arm made that restless movement; while the gramophone struck up: “The boys in brown.” The movement of the arm affected Pierson horribly; he rose and, touching the bandaged shoulder, said:
“Good-bye; I hope you'll soon be quite recovered.”