(From "The Love of an Hour.")
Fitzgerald made his way to the barn, which was above the byre, sat down in the straw but did not unloosen his puttees or boots.
A lamp swinging from a beam lit up the apartment, showing the straw heaped in the corners, the sickles and spades hanging from the rafters, the sleepers lying in all conceivable positions, the bundles of equipment, the soldiers' rifles which stood piled in the corners out of the way. Now and again a rat glided across the straw, stood for a moment in the light, peered cautiously round, and disappeared. The air was full of the smell of musty wood, of straw, and of the byre underneath. All was very quiet, little could be heard save the breathing of the men, the noise of the restless cattle as they lay down or got up again. Snoggers and Benners laid themselves on the straw, Bowdy curled up like a dog, Snoggers stretched out as stiffly as a statue. Bubb undressed and Fitzgerald, getting to his feet, applied sticking plaster to the dog's bite.
"You'll go mad, you know," said Fitzgerald. "The only thing that can save you is to get three hairs of the dog that bit you and put them on here."
Having performed his job Fitzgerald sat down and Bubb dressed again. Then he lay on the straw, both hands in his overcoat pockets, one leg across the other and a cigarette in his mouth.
"Get down to it, Fitz," Snogger shouted. "Ye're damned slow o' showin' a leg in the mornin', you woman."
"It's all right, Sergeant," the Irishman replied. "I'm just goin' to look at a paper. I'll be in bed in a twinkling."
"Douse the glim 'fore you kip, then," said the sergeant. "Night!"
Fitzgerald fumbled in his pocket, brought out a newspaper and looked at it. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, for his eye, scanning the printed columns of an advertisement page, turned from time to time and rested on the face of Sergeant Snogger.
"I think it's safe now," said Fitzgerald, when five minutes had passed. "Old Snogger is snoring."