in billets, and he sticks closer than a brother. The cootie is a
good deal of an acrobat. His policy of attack is to hang on to the
shirt and to nibble at the occupant. Pull off the shirt and he
comes with it. Hence the shirt hunt. Tommy gets out in the open
somewhere so as not to shed his little companions indoors--there's
always enough there anyhow--and he peels. Then he systematically
runs down each seam--the cootie's favorite hiding place--catches
the game, and ends his career by cracking him between the thumb
nails.

For some obscure psychological reason, Tommy seems to like company
on one of these hunts. Perhaps it is because misery loves company,
or it may be that he likes to compare notes on the catch. Anyhow,
it is a common thing to see from a dozen to twenty soldiers with
their shirts off, hunting cooties.

"Hi sye, 'Arry," you'll hear some one sing out. "Look 'ere. Strike
me bloomin' well pink but this one 'ere's got a black stripe along
'is back."

Or, "If this don't look like the one I showed ye 'fore we went into
the blinkin' line. 'Ow'd 'e git loose?"

And then, as likely as not, a little farther away, behind the
officers' quarters, you'll hear one say:

"I say, old chap, it's deucedly peculiar I should have so many of
the beastly things after putting on the Harrisons mothaw sent in
the lawst parcel."