The lieutenant heard it as he walked away. "Oh, sergeant," he said familiarly; "I think the others have got the right stuff in them."

The company went into the barracks and waited.

The sergeant-major's office was full of a clicking of typewriters, and was overheated by a black stove that stood in the middle of the floor, letting out occasional little puffs of smoke from a crack in the stove pipe. The sergeant-major was a small man with a fresh boyish face and a drawling voice who lolled behind a large typewriter reading a magazine that lay on his lap.

Fuselli slipped in behind the typewriter and stood with his cap in his hand beside the sergeant-major's chair.

"Well what do you want?" asked the sergeant-major gruffly.

"A feller told me, Sergeant-Major, that you was look-in' for a man with optical experience;" Fuselli's voice was velvety.

"Well?"

"I worked three years in an optical-goods store at home in Frisco."

"What's your name, rank, company?"

"Daniel Fuselli, Private 1st-cla.s.s, Company C, medical supply warehouse."

"All right, I'll attend to it."

"But, sergeant."

"All right; out with what you've got to say, quick." The sergeant-major fingered the leaves of his magazine impatiently.

"My company's all packed up to go. The transfer'll have to be today, sergeant."

"Why the h.e.l.l didn't you come in earlier?... Stevens, make out a transfer to headquarters company and get the major to sign it when he goes through.... That's the way it always is," he cried, leaning back tragically in his swivel chair. "Everybody always puts everything off on me at the last minute."

"Thank you, sir," said Fuselli, smiling. The sergeant-major ran his hand through his hair and took up his magazine again peevishly.

Fuselli hurried back to barracks where he found the company still waiting. Several men were crouched in a circle playing c.r.a.ps. The rest lounged in their bare bunks or fiddled with their packs. Outside it had begun to rain softly, and a smell of wet sprouting earth came in through the open door. Fuselli sat on the floor beside his bunk throwing his knife down so that it stuck in the boards between his knees. He was whistling softly to himself. The day dragged on. Several times he heard the town clock strike in the distance.

At last the top sergeant came in, shaking the water off his slicker, a serious, important expression on his face.

"Inspection of medical belts," he shouted. "Everybody open up their belt and lay it on the foot of their bunk and stand at attention on the left side."

The lieutenant and a major appeared suddenly at one end of the barracks and came through slowly, pulling the little packets out of the belts.

The men looked at them out of the corners of their eyes. As they examined the belts, they chatted easily, as if they had been alone.

"Yes," said the major. "We're in for it this time.... That d.a.m.ned offensive."

"Well, we'll be able to show 'em what we're good for," said the lieutenant, laughing. "We haven't had a chance yet."

"Hum! Better mark that belt, lieutenant, and have it changed. Been to the front yet?"

"No, sir."

"Hum, well.... You'll look at things differently when you have," said the major.

The lieutenant frowned.

"Well, on the whole, lieutenant, your outfit is in very good shape....

At ease, men!" The lieutenant and the major stood at the door a moment raising the collars of their coats; then they dove out into the rain.

A few minutes later the sergeant came in.

"All right, get your slickers on and line up."

They stood lined up in the rain for a long while. It was a leaden afternoon. The even clouds had a faint coppery tinge. The rain beat in their faces, making them tingle. Fuselli was looking anxiously at the sergeant. At last the lieutenant appeared.

"Attention!" cried the sergeant.

The roll was called and a new man fell in at the end of the line, a tall man with large protruding eyes like a calf's.

"Private 1st-cla.s.s Daniel Fuselli, fall out and report to headquarters company!"

Fuselli saw a look of surprise come over men's faces. He smiled wanly at Meadville.

"Sergeant, take the men down to the station."

"Squads, right," cried the sergeant. "March!"

The company tramped off into the streaming rain.

Fuselli went back to the barracks, took off his pack and slicker and wiped the water off his face.

The rails gleamed gold in the early morning sunshine above the deep purple cinders of the track. Fuselli's eyes followed the track until it curved into a cutting where the wet clay was a bright orange in the clear light. The station platform, where puddles from the night's rain glittered as the wind ruffled them, was empty. Fuselli started walking up and down with his hands in his pockets. He had been sent down to unload some supplies that were coming on that morning's train. He felt free and successful since he joined the headquarters company! At last, he told himself, he had a job where he could show what he was good for.

He walked up and down whistling shrilly.

A train pulled slowly into the station. The engine stopped to take water and the couplings clanked all down the line of cars. The platform was suddenly full of men in khaki, stamping their feet, running up and down shouting.

"Where you guys goin'?" asked Fuselli.

"We're bound for Palm Beach. Don't we look it?" someone snarled in reply.

But Fuselli had seen a familiar face. He was shaking hands with two browned men whose faces were grimy with days of travelling in freight cars.

"Hullo, Chrisfield. Hullo, Andrews!" he cried. "When did you fellows get over here?"

"Oh, 'bout four months ago," said Chrisfield, whose black eyes looked at Fuselli searchingly. "Oh! Ah 'member you. You're Fuselli. We was at trainin' camp together. 'Member him, Andy?"

"Sure," said Andrews. "How are you makin' out?"

"Fine," said Fuselli. "I'm in the optical department here."