“I look at it this way,” he was saying. “A feller needs a little of that to keep healthy. Now, if he's abstemious and careful...” Fuselli went to sleep. He woke up again thinking suddenly: he must borrow that little blue book of army regulations. It would be useful to know that in case something came up. The corporal who had been in the Red Sox outfield had been transferred to a Base Hospital. It was t. b. so Sergeant Osier said. Anyway they were going to appoint an acting corporal. He stared at the flickering little light in the ceiling. “How did you get a pass?” Eisenstein was asking. “Oh, the sergeant fixed me up with one,” answered Fuselli mysteriously. “You're in pretty good with the sergeant, ain't yer?” said Eisenstein. Fuselli smiled deprecatingly. “Say, d'ye know that little kid Stockton?” “The white-faced little kid who's clerk in that outfit that has the other end of the barracks?” “That's him,” said Eisenstein. “I wish I could do something to help that kid. He just can't stand the discipline.... You ought to see him wince when the red-haired sergeant over there yells at him.... The kid looks sicker every day.” “Well, he's got a good soft job: clerk,” said Fuselli. “Ye think it's soft? I worked twelve hours day before yesterday getting out reports,” said Eisenstein, indignantly. “But the kid's lost it and they keep ridin' him for some reason or other. It hurts a feller to see that. He ought to be at home at school.” “He's got to take his medicine,” said Fuselli. “You wait till we get butchered in the trenches. We'll see how you like your medicine,” said Eisenstein. “Damn fool,” muttered Fuselli, composing himself to sleep again. The bugle wrenched Fuselli out of his blankets, half dead with sleep. “Say, Bill, I got a head again,” he muttered. There was no answer. It was only then that he noticed that the cot next to his was empty. The blankets were folded neatly at the foot. Sudden panic seized him. He couldn't get along without Bill Grey, he said to himself, he wouldn't have anyone to go round with. He looked fixedly at the empty cot. “Attention!” The company was lined up in the dark with their feet in the mud puddles of the road. The lieutenant strode up and down in front of them with the tail of his trench coat sticking out behind. He had a pocket flashlight that he kept flashing at the gaunt trunks of trees, in the faces of the company, at his feet, in the puddles of the road. “If any man knows anything about the whereabouts of Private 1st-class William Grey, report at once, as otherwise we shall have to put him down A. W. O. L. You know what that means?” The lieutenant spoke in short shrill periods, chopping off the ends of his words as if with a hatchet. No one said anything. “I guess he's S. O. L.”; this from someone behind Fuselli. “And I have one more announcement to make, men,” said the lieutenant in his natural voice. “I'm going to appoint Fuselli, 1st-class private, acting corporal.”