Rather!" He sat thinking, a white figure in the starlight, cross-legged like a Buddha.
"That's why they've all been lying doggo," he continued.

"And then their bad marksmanship, with all this sniping--they don't care, you see, whether they pot us or not.

They'd rather make one clean sweep, and 'blow us at the moon.' Eh?
Cheer up, Rudie: so long as they're digging, they're not blowing.

Are they ?" While he spoke, the din outside the walls wavered and sank, at last giving place to a shrill, tiny interlude of insect voices.

In this diluted silence came now and then a tinkle of glass from the dark hospital room where Miss Drake was groping among her vials.
Heywood listened.
"If it weren't for that," he said quietly, "I shouldn't much care.
Except for the women, this would really be great larks." Then, as a shadow flitted past the orange grove, he roused himself to hail: "Ah Pat! Go catchee four piecee coolie-man!" "Can do." The shadow passed, and after a time returned with four other shadows.