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"that he will be a fine addition to Dynamite's menagerie." "That he will be another worthless mouth for me to feed," Warden said. "Did you hear that too? Why not? I'm used to it. Its too bad he had to wait till February, till the ending of the boxing season. Now he'll have to wait till next December for his sergeantcy." "You poor, poor, unhappy man," Leva said, "that everybody takes advantage of." He leaned back and waved his hand at the piles of equipment stacked everywhere and that he had been working on for three days now. "I'm glad I got a nice soft easy well-paid job." "A goddam hardhead," Warden lamented, grinning, "a worthless Kentuckian, but who will be a corporal in six weeks, but who will still be a worthless goddam hardhead." "But a good bugler though," Leva said. "I've heard him. A damn good bugler. The best bugler on the Post," he said, grinning. Warden banged his fist down on the counter. "Then he should of stayed in the Bugle Corps," he shouted, "instead of fouling up my outfit." He flung back the folding countertop, kicked open the plywood door and went inside the counter, threading through the piles of shirts and pants and leggins on the floor. Leva ducked his head back down to his typewriter and began to poke it, snuffling softly through his long thin nose. "Have you got this goddam clothing issue stuff closed out yet?" Warden raged at him. "What the hell you think I am?" Leva asked, still laughing silently. "A goddam supply clerk, whose job is to get this stuff done instead of gossipping about transfers all the time. You should have had this done two days ago." "Tell it to Supply Sergeant O'Hayer," Leva said, "I'm only the clerk here." Warden stopped his raging as suddenly as he had started it and looking at Leva with a speculative shrewdness scratched his chin and grinned. "Has your illustrious mentor, Mister O'Hayer, been in this morning yet?" "What do you think?" Leva said. He unwound his jerked-leather frame from around the desk and lit a cigaret. "Well," Warden said. "I would be inclined to say no. Just as a guess." "Well," Leva said. "You would be entirely right," Warden grinned at him. "Well, after all, its only eight. You cant expect a man of his station, and with his cares, to get up at eight o'clock with clerks like you." "Its a joke to you," Leva said, peevishly. "You can laugh about it. Its no joke to me." "Maybe he was counting the take," Warden grinned, "from his game in the sheds last night. I bet you wish you had a nice easy life like that." "I wish I had ten percent of the dough he takes in every payday in that shed," Leva said, thinking of the maintenance sheds across the street from the dayroom where every month, when they had moved out the 37 millimeters and the machine gun carts and all the rest of it, most of the money in the Lower Post finally wound up and where, of the four sheds, O'Hayer's always had the biggest take. "I understood," said Warden, "that he give you almost that much to do his work here for him." Leva gave him a withering look and Warden chuckled. "I believe you," Leva said. "Next thing, you'll be askin me for a cut on what he give me, or else have me busted." "Now thats an idea," Warden grinned. 'Thanks. I'd of never thought of that." "It wont be so goddam funny," Leva said grimly, "some day. Some day when I transfer the hell out and leave you with this supplyroom in your lap with nobody to do the work but O'Hayer who dont know a Form 32 from a 33." "You'll never transfer out of this Compny," Warden scoffed. "If you was to go outdoors before sundown you'd be blind as a bat. This supplyroom's in your blood. You couldnt leave it if you had to." "Oh," Leva said. "Is that the way it is? I'm gettin tard of doin the supply sergeant's work while Jim O'Hayer gets the credit and the money because he's Dynamite's number one lightheavy and pays off in Regiment to run that shed. He aint even a good fighter." "He's a good gambler, though," Warden said indifferently. "Thats what