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Andrews kept his back to the window. Something in his legs seemed to be tramping in time with the other legs. "There they go," said Chrisfield. "Loot's with 'em today.... Want some grub? If it ain't been punk since the armistice."
Sarge's gone out to git stewed, an' the Loot's away." "Sure," said another man, "we kin stay out as late's we goddam please tonight." "There's a new M.P. in town," said Chrisfield.... "Ah saw him maself.... You did, too, didn't you, Andy?" Andrews nodded. He was looking at the Frenchman, who sat with his face in shadow and his black lashes covering his eyes.
Andrews made a scraping noise with his foot on the ground. "Well, what about that travel order?" said the red-haired sergeant. "Loot's out," said the other man, still typewriting. "Well, didn't he leave it on his desk?" shouted the red-haired sergeant angrily. "Couldn't find it." "I suppose I've got to go look for it.... God!" The red-haired sergeant stamped out of the room.
He began immediately to restring the rackets, to make new balls from twine, to lay out a court. Like true soldiers of fortune, Honey Smith and Pete Murphy made no special collection; they looted for mere loot's sake. One day, in the midst of one of their raids, Honey Smith yelled a surprised and triumphant, "By jiminy!" The others showed no signs, of interest.
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