"Are they?" Judson glared at the speaker. "I'd like to hear 'em. I'd like to see somebody get fresh. Why, SAY!"—he clenched his powerful hands—"I'd fill their hospitals until they bulged." After a moment he continued: "I s'pose it's natural for you to worry, since you're responsible for her being here, in a way, but—" His tone changed, he relaxed and lay back in his hammock. "Oh, well, you're about the only man I can't hate."
"Jealous, are you? I didn't know you were in so deep."
The other shook his head. "Oh, I'm daffy. D'you think she'd have me?"
"Not a chance."
"Hey? Why not? I'm a good big husky—I'll get a Government job when the war is over and—-"
"That's just the trouble. She'll fall for some poor, sickly unfortunate, with one leg. She's the sort that always does. She's the sort that has to have something to 'mother.' Lord, I'd give a good deal to see her safely back in New York!"
Judson, it seemed, had a better understanding of artillery than of women; he pondered O'Reilly's statement seriously, and his face clouded.
"Some sickly fellow. Some fellow like Branch, eh?" After a moment he continued, more hopefully: "Well, it won't be HIM; he'll soon be dead. There's some consolation in that. I could almost—"
O'Reilly motioned for silence, for at that moment Branch himself approached, his long face set in lines of discontent, even deeper than usual. He had been wandering about the camp in one of his restless fits, and now he began:
"Say, what do you think I've been doing?"