'Help Peter back to his bunk, Tex,' said Brough.
'Sure, Don.'
Tex lifted him in his arms and grinned at Brough. 'Like a baby, sir,' he said and went out.
Brough stared at the money on the poker table. 'Yep,' he said, nodding, as though to himself, 'gambling's no good. No goddam good at all.' He looked up at the King and said sweetly, 'I don't approve of gambling, do you?'
Watch yourself, the King told himself, Brough's got that mean officer look about him. Why is it only son of a bitch officers get that look and why is it you always know it — and can always smell the danger twenty feet away?
'Well,' the King said, offering Brough a cigarette and holding the light for him, 'I guess it depends on how you look at it.'
'Thanks. Nothing like a tailor-made.' Once more Brough's eyes locked on the King's. 'And how do you look at it, Corporal?'
'If I'm winning, it looks good. If I'm losing, not so good,' and added under his breath, You son of a bitch, what the hell's on your mind?
Brough grunted and looked at the stack of notes in front of the place where the King had been seated. Nodding thoughtfully, he thumbed through the notes and held them in his hand. All of them. His eyes saw the large piles in front of every place. 'Looks like everybody's winning in this school,' he said reflectively to no one in particular.
The King didn't answer.
'Looks like you could afford a contribution.'
'Huh?'
'Yes, 'huh,' goddammit!' Brough held up the notes. 'About this much. To go into the goddam pool. Officers and enlisted men alike.'
The King moaned. Best part of four hundred dollars. 'Jesus, Don . . .'
'Gambling's a bad habit Like swearing, goddammit. You play cards, you might just lose the money, then where'd you be? A contribution'd save your soul for better things.'
Barter, you fool, the King told himself. Settle for half.
'Gee, I'd be happy to—'
'Good.' Brough turned to Max. 'You too, Max.'
'But sir —' the King began heatedly.
'You've had your say.'
Max tried not to look at the King, and Brough said, 'That's right, Max. You look at him. Good man. He's made a contribution, why the hell can't you?'
Brough took three-fourths of the notes from each stack and counted the money quickly. In front of them. The King had to sit and watch.
'That makes ten bucks a man a week for six weeks,' said Brough.
'Thursday's payday. Oh yeah. Max! Collect all water bottles and take them up to the guardhouse. Right now!' He stuffed the money into his pocket, then walked to the door. At the door he had a sudden thought. He took the notes out once more and peeled off a single five-dollar bill. Looking at the King, he tossed it into the center of the table.
'Burying money.' His smile was angelic. ''Night, you guys.'
Throughout the camp, the collection of water bottles was under way.
Mac and Larkin and Peter Marlowe were in the bungalow. On the bed, beside Peter Marlowe, were their water bottles.
'We could take the wireless out of them and drop the cases down a borehole,' Mac said. 'Those bloody bottles are going to be difficult to hide now.'
'We could drop 'em as they are down a borehole,' Larkin said.
'You don't really mean that, do you, Colonel?' asked Peter Marlowe.
'No, cobber. But I said it, an' we should all decide what to do.'
Mac picked up one of the bottles. 'Perhaps they'll return the other ones in a day or so. We canna hide the guts of the bottles any better than they're hid now.' He looked up and said venomously, 'But who's the bastard who knows?'
They stared at the water bottles.
'Isn't it about time to listen for the news?' Peter Marlowe said.
'Ay laddie,' Mac said and looked at Larkin.
'I agree,' he said.
The King was still awake when Timsen peered through the window.
'Cobber?'
'Yeah?'
Timsen held up a bundle of notes. 'We got the ten you paid.'
