It was not until in the evening when the four Khaki Boys were leaving the “Y,” where they had spent an hour after mess, that Jimmy bethought himself to ask Iggy, “Did Schnitzel have any trouble with Bixton while we were gone? I heard before we left that Bixton was wild because he had to stay in camp. I thought, maybe, he’d try to take it out on Schnitz.”
“No. He no do nothin’, no say nothin’. He have the big box to eat he get by home. Himself eat, no give nothin’. All time smoke an’ look mad. Schnitzel no care. He stay by me. We are the frens.”
“‘Himself eat,’” mimicked Jimmy. “I wish he would, and not leave a scrap!”
“You should worry. He’s safe for a while. He won’t risk any more run-ins with the K. O. for fear of getting canned up for Christmas. Bottled Bixton doesn’t look good to him just now.” Bob grinned at his own fanciful labeling of the obstreperous Bixton.
“I guess he’s about through as a trouble bird,” observed Jimmy. “That detail in the mess kitchen must have cured him. I’ll bet he hated to go to it.”
“Never I like him that kitchen,” sighed Ignace. “Schnitzel no mind. He ver’ good solder. Say—say—— What him say?” Wrestling with memory, Ignace ended with a triumphant, “Him say, ‘All the duty him a line’!”
“Oh, wow!” shouted Bob gleefully, slapping Iggy on the back. “That’s a funny one!”
“You have the grow stron’er,” placidly remarked the misquoter, unruffled by Bob’s levity.
Taps that night left the Khaki Boys ready for a quick hike into dreamland. The next day dawned like any one day at Camp Sterling, with a concerted rush on the part of several thousand Sammies to get into their uniforms and line up for roll call.
“With all due credit to our hard-plugging cooks, I’m not what you might call a hearty eater,” grumbled Bob to Roger, as the Khaki Boys of Company E stood before the counter in the mess hall at noon. “Mrs. Blaise’s cook beats Mrs. Army’s hash maidens all hollow.”