As may be imagined, no kindly good nights passed between the
two.
Now Davis had just been over from England but a short time and was
comparatively clean in his person, while Stevens was lousy, and to
complete the diabolism of the revenge, Gunboat, instead of throwing his
shirt on the floor as he usually did, watched his opportunity and when
he heard a snore from Hambone that had no camouflage in it, he slipped
his shirt in at the head of the bed where our official tormentor
reposed.
Our glee was positively fiendish next day when watching Hambone
wriggling uneasily in his clothes at parade. Gunboat had sent us an
underground message telling us what he did, and we did not fail to
recognize the symptoms at once; every moment he got a chance he was
scratching himself; and as soon as he had the opportunity he made for
the nearest tree and, rubbing his back violently against it, almost wore
a hole in his coat. Miserable were his moments throughout that day. "'Ow
in 'ell can a man fight an' scratch at the same time!" he would snort.
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