"Does it hurt, Jimmie?" said Grierson, hoarsely. "No," said Nolan, "it don't hurt any, but I feel sort of dead-to-the-world and numb all over. I don't think it's very bad." "Oh, it's all right," said Watkins. "What I need is a drink," said Nolan, grinning at them. "I'm chilly--lying on this damp ground." "It ain't very damp, Jimmie," said Grierson. "Well, it is damp," said Nolan, with sudden irritability. "I can feel it. I'm wet, I tell you--wet through--just from lying here." They answered hastily. "Yes, that's so, Jimmie. It _is_ damp. That's so." "Just put your hand under my back and see how wet the ground is," he said. "No," they answered. "That's all right, Jimmie. We know it's wet." "Well, put your hand under and see," he cried, stubbornly. "Oh, never mind, Jimmie." "No," he said, in a temper. "See for yourself." Grierson seemed to be afraid of Nolan's agitation, and so he slipped a hand under the prostrate man, and presently withdrew it covered with blood. "Yes," he said, hiding his hand carefully from Nolan's eyes, "you were right, Jimmie." "Of course I was," said Nolan, contentedly closing his eyes. "This hillside holds water like a swamp." After a moment he said, "Guess I ought to know. I'm flat here on it, and you fellers are standing up." He did not know he was dying. He thought he was holding an argument on the condition of the turf. VI "Cover his face," said Grierson, in a low and husky voice afterwards. "What'll I cover it with?" said Watkins. They looked at themselves. They stood in their shirts, trousers, leggings, shoes; they had nothing. "Oh," said Grierson, "here's his hat." He brought it and laid it on the face of the dead man. They stood for a time. It was apparent that they thought it essential and decent to say or do something. Finally Watkins said in a broken voice, "Aw, it's a dam shame." They moved slowly off toward the firing line. * * * * * In the blue gloom of evening, in one of the fever-tents, the two rows of still figures became hideous, charnel. The languid movement of a hand was surrounded with spectral mystery, and the occasional painful twisting of a body under a blanket was terrifying, as if dead men were moving in their graves under the sod. A heavy odour of sickness and medicine hung in the air. "What regiment are you in?" said a feeble voice. "Twenty-ninth Infantry," answered another voice. "Twenty-ninth! Why, the man on the other side of me is in the Twenty-ninth." "He is?... Hey, there, partner, are you in the Twenty-ninth?" A third voice merely answered wearily. "Martin of C Company." "What? Jack, is that you?" "It's part of me.... Who are you?" "Grierson, you fat-head. I thought you were wounded." There was the noise of a man gulping a great drink of water, and at its conclusion Martin said, "I am." "Well, what you doin' in the fever-place, then?" Martin replied with drowsy impatience. "Got the fever too."