Some of his comrades whispered; now and then one rolled over; none snored, for none of them slept. Dorn felt more aloof from them than ever. How isolated each one was, locked in his own trouble! Every one of them, like himself, had a lonely soul. Perhaps they were facing it. He could not conceive of a careless, thoughtless, emotionless attitude toward this first night in the front-line trench. Dorn gradually grew more acutely sensitive to the many faint, rustling, whispering sounds in and near the dugout. A soldier came stooping into the opaque square of the dugout door. His rifle, striking the framework, gave out a metallic clink. This fellow expelled a sudden heavy breath as if throwing off an oppression. "Is that you, Sanborn?" This whisper Dorn recognized as Dixon's. It was full of suppressed excitement. "Yes." "Guess it's my turn next. How--how does it go?" Sanborn's laugh had an odd little quaver. "Why, so far as I know, I guess it's all right. Damn queer, though. I wish we'd got here in daytime.... But maybe that wouldn't help." "Humph!... Pretty quiet out there?" "So Bob says, but what's he know--more than us? I heard guns up the line, and rifle-fire not so far off." "Can you see any--" "Not a damn thing--yet everything," interrupted Sanborn, enigmatically. "Dixon!" called Owens, low and quickly, from the darkness. Dixon did not reply. His sudden hard breathing, the brushing of his garments against the door, then swift, soft steps dying away attested to the fact of his going. Dorn tried to compose himself to rest, if not to sleep. He heard Sanborn sit down, and then apparently stay very still for some time. All of a sudden he whispered to himself. Dorn distinguished the word "hell." "What's ailin' you, pard?" drawled Brewer. Sanborn growled under his breath, and when some one else in the dugout quizzed him curiously he burst out: "I'll bet you galoots the state of California against a dill pickle that when your turn comes you'll be sick in your gizzards!" "We'll take our medicine," came in the soft, quiet voice of Purcell. No more was said. The men all pretended to fall asleep, each ashamed to let his comrade think he was concerned. A short, dull, heavy rumble seemed to burst the outer stillness. For a moment the dugout was silent as a tomb. No one breathed. Then came a jar of the earth, a creaking of shaken timbers. Some one gasped involuntarily. Another whispered: "By God! the real thing!"