"What's the matter, pal?" said Frawley, pausing in surprise.
"You darned old Englishman," said Greenfield affectionately. "Say, Bub."
"Yes, Bucky."
"The dinkies are all right—but—but a Yank, a real Yank, would 'a' got me in six months."
"All right, Bucky. Shall I raise you up?"
"H'ist away."
"Would you like the feeling of a gun in your hand again?" said Frawley, raising him up.
This time Greenfield did not laugh, but his hand closed convulsively over the butt, and he gave a savage sigh of delight. His limbs contracted violently, his head bore heavily on the shoulder of Frawley, who heard him whisper again:
"A bug—a little—"
Then he stopped and appeared to listen. Outside, the evening was soft and stirring. Through the door the children appeared, tumbling over one another, in grotesque attitudes.