"That sounds like a good idea," d.i.c.k nodded, smiling slightly.

"If he has to lose some of his sleep for instruction Hartley may remember better. A soldier who offers his salutes in a slovenly fashion is always a long way from being a really good soldier.

And, Sergeant, tell all the corporals that each will be held responsible for drill and instruction of their squads in the art of snappy saluting."

Glancing at his wrist watch Prescott now noted that it was within five minutes of time for the battalion practice march. Accordingly he stepped outside. His lieutenants being already on the drill ground he gave them brief directions as to the instruction to be imparted on the hike and the deficiencies in the men's work that were to be watched for. While he was still speaking the bugler sounded a.s.sembly.

Two or three minutes later the first battalion, under Major Wells, marched off the drill ground in column of fours.

As A company moved off at the head of the battalion some of the non-coms called quietly:

"Hip! hip! hip!"

At each "hip" the men stepped forward on the left foot. A few of the recruits still found difficulty in keeping step.

"Let that third four close up!" ordered Lieutenant Terry briskly.

"Pay more heed to keeping the interval correctly."

When the third four closed up those behind closed in accordance, sergeants and corporals giving this matter close attention.

As it was a practice march the men continued to move in step.

Company streets were left behind and the battalion moved on across a field, where later a trench system was to be installed, out past where the rifle ranges were already being constructed, and then up the gradual ascent of a low hill from which a spread-out view of the camp was to be had. On all the out-lying roads, at this time, bodies of troops were to be seen marching in various directions. At a distance these columns of men, clad in olive drab, made one think of brown caterpillars moving slothfully along.

That was a distance effect, however, for the marching men did not move slowly, but kept on at the regular cadence of a hundred and twenty steps to the minute.

In less than ten minutes after the start, with the rays of the sun pouring down mercilessly on them, the soldiers began to perspire freely. Another five minutes and it was necessary to brush the perspiration out of their eyes.

a.s.suredly the officers felt the heat as much. Yet from time to time Captain Prescott fell out from his place at the head of the company and allowed the line to march by, observing every good, indifferent or bad feature of their marching, and correcting what he could by low spoken commands. Whenever the last of the company had pa.s.sed Prescott ran along by the marching men until he had gained the head. If the men suffered acute discomfort in marching Prescott experienced more suffering in running under that hot sun. But he was intent only on the idea of having the best company in what he fondly hoped would turn out to be the best regiment in the Army.

For some minutes Greg had been aware that Sergeant Mock, of his company, was hobbling along. Now, as he turned to glance backward, he saw Mock step out of the ranks, go to the side of the road and sit down.

A glance at his wrist watch, and Greg saw that the first half-hour was nearly up. In a minute or two more, he knew Major Bell would give the order for a counter-march, and the first battalion would swing and come back on its own trail. So Captain Holmes turned and ran back to his non-commissioned officer.

"What's the matter, Sergeant?" the young captain inquired pleasantly.

Mock made as though trying to rise from the ground to stand at attention, but his lips twisted as though he were in pain.

"Rest," ordered Greg, "and tell me what ails you."

"My feet are killing me, sir," groaned the sergeant.

"That's odd," Captain Holmes commented. "You were all right at a.s.sembly---lively enough then. Has half an hour of marching used up a sound, healthy man?"

Instantly the sergeant's look became surly.

"All I know, sir, is that I could hardly stand on my feet. So I had to drop out. If you'll permit it, sir, I shall have to get back to camp the best way I can."

"If you're that badly off I'll have an ambulance sent for you,"

Greg went on. "But I don't understand your feet giving out so suddenly. Take off one of your shoes and the sock."

"That may not show much, but I'm suffering just the same, sir,"

rejoined the non-com in a grumbling tone.

"Let me see," Greg insisted.

While the sergeant was busy removing a legging and unlacing a shoe Captain Holmes glanced up the road to discover that the battalion was counter-marching.

"Be quick about it, Sergeant," Greg urged.

Moving no faster than he had to, Mock took off his shoe, then slowly turned the sock down, peeling it off.

"Is that the worst foot?" Greg demanded, in astonishment.

"I don't know, sir; they both hurt me."

"Do you want to show me the other foot, or do you wish to get back among the file closers?"

"I---I can't walk, sir."

Down on one knee went Greg, carefully inspecting the foot and feeling it. The skin was clean, rosy, firm.

"Why there isn't a sign of a blister," Captain Holmes declared.

"Nor is there an abrasion of any kind, or any callous. There isn't even a corn. That's as healthy a doughboy foot as I've seen. Dress your foot again, and put on your legging---_p.r.o.nto_."

A "doughboy" is an infantry soldier. "p.r.o.nto" is a word the Army has borrowed from the Spanish, and means, "Be quick about it."

"I'm not fit to march, sir," cried Sergeant Mock.

"Either you'll be ready by the time B company is here, and you'll march in, or I'll detail a man to remain here with you, and send an ambulance for you. If I have to send an ambulance I'll have you examined at the hospital, and if I find you've been faking foot trouble then you shall feel the full weight of military law.

I'll give you your own choice. Which do you want?"

Tugging his sock on, Mock merely mumbled.

"Answer me!" Greg insisted sharply.

"I---I'll do my best to march, sir."

"Then be sure you're ready by the time B company gets here, and be sure you march all the way in," Greg ordered sternly. He hated a shamming imitation of a soldier.

Major Bell and his staff came by at the head of the line, followed by Prescott and A company.

"Don't disappoint me, Sergeant," Greg warned his man.

Though his brow was black with wrath Sergeant Mock stood up by the time that the head of B company arrived.

"Take your place, Sergeant," Greg ordered, and waited to see his order obeyed, next running up to his own post.

Ten minutes later, as a group of carpenters from the rifle range paused at the roadside, Greg chanced to glance backward. He was just in time to see Sergeant Mock limping out of the line of file-closers to sit down at the roadside.

His jaws set, Greg Holmes darted back.

"That's enough of this, Mock," he called. "You can't sham in B company. Your feet, I suppose?"