Something laughed, quite close now. “All right, Bub,” said a cloud, “We’ll take your word for it. My, but the boy’s got language! Go ahead and cuss while we get you up on the stretcher⁠— It helps some⁠—easy there, Joe.” Jack Ellyat fell Out of his bodies into a whispering blackness Through which, now and then, he could hear certain talking clouds Cough or remark. One said. “That’s two and a half You owe me, Joe. You’re pickin’ ’em wrong tonight.” “Well, poor suckers,” said Joseph. “But all the same, If this one doesn’t last till the dressing station The bet’s off⁠—take it slower, Jerry⁠—it hurts him.”