"Mine is full up o' muck, too," said Spudhole. There was an indifference in his tones. He seemed to have lost all interest in his best friend, his "'ipe."
"I don't care a damn," he muttered. "A nipe's only made to be cleaned in this 'ere war as far as I can see."
"When is the rum coming up?" Bowdy enquired. "Probably we'll get none to-night."
"'S'up," said Bubb, "round the next bay in the dug-out."
"Well, I'm off," said Bowdy. "I'm half frozen. I'm for a good tot if it's going.... By the way," he asked, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, "how many of our fellows were blown up by the mine this morning?"
"Seven or eight," said Bubb, "or maybe more."
"And to think that to-night's Christmas Eve," said Benners, as if the conversation had forcibly reminded him of the fact.
The two men clambered over the top and made their way towards the dug-out from which the rum was issued.
Fitzgerald got up and followed.
As he crawled over the sandbags a starshell rose into the darkness and lit the scene of war. The country showed wet and livid, the barbed wire entanglements wound crookedly along the levels. The wires stretched out waiting for their prey with threatening barbs.