Captain Colton lighted another cigarette and it glowed in the dark.
"Uncanny," he said.
"I find it more so than usual tonight," said John. "Maybe it's the visit
of Weber that makes me feel that way, recalling to me that I was once a
man, a civilized human being who bathed regularly and who put on clean
clothes at frequent intervals."
"Such days may come again--for some of us."
"So they may. But it's ghastly here, holed up like animals for the
winter."
"Comparison not fair to animals. They choose snug dens. Warm leaves and
brush all about 'em."
"While we lie or stand in mud or snow. After all, Captain, the animals
have more sense in some ways than we. They kill one another only for
food, while we kill because of hate or ignorance."
"Mostly ignorance."
"I suppose so. Hear that! It's a pleasant sound."
"So it is. Makes me think of home."
Some one further down the trench was playing a mouth organ. It was
merely a thin stream of sound, but it had a soft seductive note. The
tune was American, a popular air. It was glorified so far away and in
such terrible places, and John suddenly grew sick for home and the
pleasant people in the sane republic beyond the seas. But he crushed the
emotion and listened in silence as the player played on.
"A hundred of those little mouth-organs reached our brigade this
morning," said Colton.
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