“That's it, Bill, tell him where to get off.” “If you fellers don't quit yellin', I'll put the whole blame lot of you on K. P.,” came the sergeant's good-natured voice. “Don't you know that taps has blown?” The tent was silent except for the fast patter of the rain and Bill Grey's coughing. “That sergeant gives me a pain in the neck,” muttered Bill Grey peevishly, when his coughing had stopped, wriggling about under the blankets. After a while Fuselli said in a very low voice, so that no one but his friend should hear: “Say, Bill, ain't it different from what we thought it was going to be?” “Yare.” “I mean fellers don't seem to think about beatin' the Huns at all, they're so busy crabbin' on everything.” “It's the guys higher up that does the thinkin',” said Grey grandiloquently. “Hell, but I thought it'd be excitin' like in the movies.” “I guess that was a lot o' talk.” “Maybe.” Fuselli went to sleep on the hard floor, feeling the comfortable warmth of Grey's body along the side of him, hearing the endless, monotonous patter of the rain on the drenched canvas above his head. He tried to stay awake a minute to remember what Mabe looked like, but sleep closed down on him suddenly. The bugle wrenched them out of their blankets before it was light. It was not raining. The air was raw and full of white mist that was cold as snow against their faces still warm from sleep. The corporal called the roll, lighting matches to read the list. When he dismissed the formation the sergeant's voice was heard from the tent, where he still lay rolled in his blankets. “Say, Corp, go an' tell Fuselli to straighten out Lieutenant Stanford's room at eight sharp in Officers' Barracks, Number Four.” “Did you hear, Fuselli?” “All right,” said Fuselli. His blood boiled up suddenly. This was the first time he'd had to do servants' work. He hadn't joined the army to be a slavey to any damned first loot. It was against army regulations anyway. He'd go and kick. He wasn't going to be a slavey.... He walked towards the door of the tent, thinking what he'd say to the sergeant. But he noticed the corporal coughing into his handkerchief with an expression of pain on his face. He turned and strolled away. It would get him in wrong if he started kicking like that. Much better shut his mouth and put up with it. The poor old corp couldn't last long at this rate. No, it wouldn't do to get in wrong. At eight, Fuselli, with a broom in his hand, feeling dull fury pounding and fluttering within him, knocked on the unpainted board door. “Who's that?” “To clean the room, sir,” said Fuselli. “Come back in about twenty minutes,” came the voice of the lieutenant. “All right, sir.”