dull glimmering blurs showed that candles were burning in the other
tents.

An icy wind was blowing round me. I was in my shirt sleeves and
regretted not having thrown my great-coat over my shoulders. The cold
made me contract my muscles and draw my breath in sharply between my
teeth. I felt the snowflakes beat gently against my face. I folded my
arms across my chest and found a little protection from the gusts that
seemed to pierce me. My left foot had sunk deeply into the slush. I
pawed the mud with my right in order to find the duckboard. I touched
the edge and stepped firmly upon it. With an effort I dragged the other
foot from the slush. It came out with a loud, sucking squelch, but I
felt it was leaving my boot behind. I let it sink back again and then
freed it with a twist of the ankle.

I could not see the duckboard in the dense gloom. I walked along it
carefully, feeling the edge from time to time. I heard a rapid step
behind me--another man was going to wash; he must have grown accustomed
to the darkness, for he walked along without hesitation. He slowed down
as he approached me. I tried to go faster, but trod on the extreme edge
of the boards. I had to stop for a moment and the man behind me became
impatient and shouted:

"Get a bloody move on, for Christ's sake. It's too cold to wait out here
in this weather."

I stood aside to let him pass. He brushed roughly by, nearly pushing me
over. I uttered a curse and stepped back with one foot--it sank deeply
into the mud. I bent sharply forward to draw it out again, there was the
beginning of a squelch and then it suddenly slid out of the boot. I