In the ravine Hicks was busy trying to place his Maxim in a position from which it would sweep a portion of the field. He had succeeded in making it remain upright on its haunches, and was now experimenting with it in various positions, so that he could swing it back and forth as he fired, and cover the maximum of ground. The water-cooler had been set at its side and the long rubber hose was attached to the machine-gun. A belt filled with cartridges was inserted in the chamber, and the affair was ready to be fired.
“’At’s some gun you got there, Hicksy, old boy. What do you ’spect to do with it? You don’t aim to kill nobody, do you?” Pugh had recovered and was in good humor. As he talked, a black stubble of beard that grew grotesquely on the chin of his elf-like face rose and fell.
“No, Jack. I’m just keepin’ it for a souvenir.”
“Hell, y’ain’t got no souvenir. Lookit, Hicksy.” He produced a small pearl-handled pistol. “Got this offen one of them Dutchmen. Lookit here.” He placed his hand in his blouse and brought out a pair of field-glasses. “Got this from another one. Now all I want to do is to git wounded and I’ll take these babies back and sell ’em for beaucoup francs to them S. O. S. birds.”
“Don’t talk about getting wounded, Pugh,” Harriman requested. “It’s bad luck. Remember what Kitty Kahl said the other night?”
“Naw, how’d I know what Kitty Kahl said? He didn’t say nothin’ to me.”
“He said that he’d either win a decoration or get killed.”
“I don’t care if he did. I want a bon-bless-ey so I can git outta this damn hole.”
“Say, Hicks,” Lepere called, “you’d better take down that confounded gun. The Boche will see it and then we’ll all get killed.”
“Oh, they won’t see it.”