He was sincere in his expressions, and his mood almost became Bowdy's before the meal was at an end. They lay back when they had eaten and lit cigarettes. The smoke wreathed upwards to the roof, where the mice was scurrying amidst the rafters under the sandbags. The soldiers were still asleep on the floor, their bodies curled up in queer attitudes.
"They sleep sound," said Flanagan. "Who is that snoring? Is it old Snogger?"
"Snogger it is," said Bowdy.
"I thought so," said Flanagan. "I knew his snore. I couldn't sleep like that at home—I'm very glad to be out here again. It's a great life, and I like it more than ever before. I suppose I'll get tired of it again, after a while. The novelty will wear out in due time, I've no doubt. By the way, have you Fitzgerald with you yet?" he asked.
"He's here," Bowdy made answer. "He's in love with a French girl named Fifi. He's very fond of her."
"He's in love, is he?" said Flanagan. "I mind him at St. Albans; he was in love so often. But none would take him seriously," he said. "Why, I don't know."
Bubb, the sentry, came to the door.
"'Oo's next on?" he yelled. "Sleepin' there like 'ogs, you is. Get up out't!"
"Leave him alone," said Flanagan, alluding to the soldier whom Bubb was endeavouring to rouse up. "I'll do his turn."
"Well, blimey, that's a strange caper," said Bubb, as Flanagan disappeared through the door. "One would fink 'e was in love wiv this 'ere caboosh. I know o' one squadder that ain't, that's this 'ere kid. Well, any'ow, I'm goin' to 'ave a kip."