"I'm billeted at...." Fitzgerald stopped and asked "Where are you billeted?"
"Oh, at the next village," said the man. "A number of the A.S.C. are billeted there."
Again a long silence. Their boots crunched angrily on the roadway and ahead the lights of war lit up the horizon.
"They're fighting like hell up there," said the man. "There's a big battle on now. Has your regiment been called up?"
As he spoke he pulled his rifle forward across his chest and fumbled with the bolt. Fitzgerald stared at him fascinated, his nerves strained to an acute pitch.
"What are you doing with your rifle?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing," the stranger answered and slung the weapon over his left shoulder. Had the man a round in the breech? Fitzgerald wondered. For himself he had not even a cartridge in the magazine. What a fool he had been not to take the precaution of being prepared for emergencies.... The stranger came close to his side and his shoulder almost touched Fitzgerald's. The Rifleman moved to the left, close to the verge of the road and his hand slipped towards his bandolier.
"It's very dark to-night," he said as his fingers closed on a cartridge.
"Very dark," said the man.
"There's no moon," Fitzgerald remarked as he slipped the bolt of his rifle back. Then with due caution he pressed the cartridge into the mouth of the magazine. As far as he could judge the stranger had not noticed the action.