“Oh, Jack.... Pugh. Let’s go find a hay-mow.”
“Oh-o, Hicksy’s gittin’ to be a wildcat. He wants to leave his little platoon. All right, come on, Hicksy.” Every time Pugh talked his voice reminded Hicks of a crippled professional beggar.
They slipped off their packs, dropped them at their feet, and dodged around a street corner.
No more than they had passed out of sight of the platoon when Hicks exclaimed: “Well, I’m damned. Old Fosbrook. Have you got a drink?”
“Hello, William.” Fosbrook put out a hand that was like a dead fish. “I’ve got a little rum.”
“Well, who wants anything better than rum? Pugh, meet an old friend of mine, Raymond Fosbrook. Fosbrook, this is Jack Pugh, the best gambler in the regiment.”
“How do you do?” Fosbrook again produced the clammy, insensible hand.
“What kind of a job have you got that you can be traipsing around the streets like this with a bottle of rum on your hip?” demanded Hicks.
“Oh, I’m the colonel’s interpreter. I order the ham, eggs, drinks, and women for him.”
“That’s not a bad job,” Hicks admitted. “Now, how about that?”