From the sounds of deep breathing about him he guessed that he alone was still awake. By the time that eleven o'clock had actually arrived he was sure that it was past twelve, and that his bunkies had overstayed their leave of absence. The setting in of this dire conjecture roused him in earnest. He had now no further need to fight off sleep. His face turned anxiously in the direction of the stairway; he was not aware that across the squad room a man had noiselessly left his cot and was slipping along cat-footed toward one of the three vacant bunks just beyond Ignace's own. Though he heard no sound, that inexplicable sense that warns of stealthy approach wrenched the Pole's straying gaze from the direction of the stairway. A sudden echoing yell of mingled surprise and anger was followed by the smack of a bare fist against flesh. Came a scuffle of feet and a resounding thump as two bodies hit the floor. The racket aroused the peacefully dreaming occupants of the squad room to startled awakening. As the thumping continued, mingled with hoarse exclamations, enraged sputterings, and the thudding impact of blows, a babble of voices rose on all sides. With it came lights and an exasperated top sergeant bearing down upon the combatants with fire in his eye. He might have been a thousand miles away so far as the fighters were concerned. They had now gained their feet, and were engaged in battle royal. "Stop it!" bellowed the sergeant. "Break away! Get back to your bunks, both of you." Despite his stentorian commands, the fight went on. Clad only in his undergarments, his long fair hair wildly tousled, eyes two blue flames, blood trickling from his nose, Ignace was a sight to be remembered, as he launched a powerful blow at Bixton, his hated antagonist. Bixton looked even worse. The coat of his pajamas hung on him in shreds. His left eye was closed, and his nose was bleeding also. His face was a livid, infuriate mask against which the freckles stood out darkly. The sergeant now took a hand in the fight. Leaping behind Ignace he wrapped both arms about the Pole's body, and, exerting all his strength, jerked the belligerent violently backward. Beginning dimly to realize what was happening to him, Ignace retained just enough common sense not to resist, but allowed himself to be flung unceremoniously down on his cot. "This is a nice state of affairs," lashed out the sergeant, glaring down at Ignace, who had now raised himself to a sitting posture. "Now you stay where you're put. Don't you dare move an inch off that cot." With this he whirled and bore down upon Bixton, who had been dragged to his own cot by another non-com.