He lay back, closed his eyes and felt very cold. At intervals he shivered, shaking from head to foot. Innumerable currents of icy air seemed to have taken up their abode in the dug-out, living, crafty currents as cruel as enemies, which stole slyly down his back penetrating between flesh and underclothing. They blew on the back of his neck; when he turned round he encountered them on his face, they stole out from all corners incessantly chilling him with their treacherous, frozen breath. He fell asleep, woke up, and it seemed to him that a swarm of ants had got into his throat and that other ants, thousands of them, were crawling over his arms and legs.
He got up, shook himself. His legs felt very weak, his head was spinning. He tottered over to the fire. Bowdy, who was pouring a handful of tea into the boiling water, looked up.
"Good heavens, Spudhole, you are looking bad," he said. "Feeling cold?"
"Cold's not the word," Bubb replied. "I wouldn't be worse off 'andcuffed to a ghost. Wot's the time?" he asked.
"Ten to eleven," said Bowdy, looking at his wrist watch.
"Just 'bout my time for sentry-go," said Bubb in a weak voice. "I s'pose I'm gettin' trench fever or somefin'," he added.
Bowdy placed a spoonful of condensed milk in the tea, stirred it and added sugar.
"This will warm you up," he said, filling the mess-tin lid with tea and handing it to Bubb. "Then you can lie down agin near the fire and I'll do your turn as sentry."
Spudhole had the lid half raised to his lips. His hand shook, the tea splashed out in little drops which fell on the brazier.
"Bowdy!" he said, in a slow voice.