Bubb cast an imploring look on Bowdy. He was now evidently frightened.
"I do feel something wrong with me inside," he said.
"I will see the M.O. this evening."
Bubb had a temperature that evening, whether due to fright or the ill effects of potatoes fried in vaseline it was impossible to say. The doctor sent him back to the hospital at ——, a shell-stricken town where the wounded were confined to cellars before going further back from the firing line.
Wrapped in blankets, Bubb went to sleep on the floor, and about one o'clock in the morning he woke up and looked around him. A candle stuck on the cold ground burned timidly and big black shadows lurked in the corners of the apartment. Opposite Bubb an R.A.M.C. orderly sat on a biscuit box dozing, the unlighted stump of a cigarette between his fingers. Near Bubb another patient lay asleep, his mouth wide open, and his knees hunched up so that they formed a little hill that dominated the cold clammy floor of the cellar.
Spudhole looked up at the roof where the light played in little ghostly ripples. As he watched, a spider slipped out of a hole directly overhead and dropped slowly down towards his face. In the half light the spider looked an immense size and its legs spread out as if endeavouring to clutch something. Fascinated Bubb watched it draw nearer, nearer, until it almost touched his face.
"Git out ye lobster!"
He raised his hand as he spoke and aimed a blow at the insect and missed. The spider clambered up again and disappeared.
"Blast the bloomin' thing!" he muttered and turned on his side. "Oh, blimey!... Good mornin'!"