Fuselli went off to the other end of the warehouse. Outside the door he stopped and bit off a cigarette in a leisurely fashion. His blood boiled sullenly. How the hell should he know where the top sergeant was? They didn't expect him to be a mind-reader, did they? And all the flood of bitterness that had been collecting in his spirit seethed to the surface. They had not treated him right, He felt full of hopeless anger against this vast treadmill to which he was bound. The endless succession of the days, all alike, all subject to orders, to the interminable monotony of drills and line-ups, passed before his mind. He felt he couldn't go on, yet he knew that he must and would go on, that there was no stopping, that his feet would go on beating in time to the steps of the treadmill. He caught sight of the sergeant coming towards the warehouse, across the new green grass, scarred by the marks of truck wheels. “Sarge,” he called. Then he went up to him mysteriously. “The loot wants to see you at once in Warehouse B.” He slouched back to his work, arriving just in time to hear the lieutenant say in a severe voice to the sergeant: “Sergeant, do you know how to draw up court-martial papers?” “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, a look of surprise on his face. He followed the precise steps of the lieutenant out of the door. Fuselli had a moment of panic terror, during which he went on working methodically, although his hands trembled. He was searching his memory for some infringement of a regulation that might be charged against him. The terror passed as fast as it had come. Of course he had no reason to fear. He laughed softly to himself. What a fool he'd been to get scared like that, and a summary court-martial couldn't do much to you anyway. He went on working as fast and as carefully as he could, through the long monotonous afternoon. That night nearly the whole company gathered in a group at the end of the barracks. Both sergeants were away. The corporal said he knew nothing, and got sulkily into bed, where he lay, rolled in his blankets, shaken by fit after fit of coughing. At last someone said: “I bet that kike Eisenstein's turned out to be a spy.” “I bet he has too.” “He's foreign born, ain't he? Born in Poland or some goddam place.” “He always did talk queer.” “I always thought,” said Fuselli, “he'd get into trouble talking the way he did.” “How'd he talk?” asked Daniels. “Oh, he said that war was wrong and all that goddamed pro-German stuff.” “D'ye know what they did out at the front?” said Daniels. “In the second division they made two fellers dig their own graves and then shot 'em for sayin' the war was wrong.” “Hell, they did?” “You're goddam right, they did. I tell you, fellers, it don't do to monkey with the buzz-saw in this army.”