"My lad, you must keep your ears open," said the sous-officier. "Now, attention. Fours right. March!"
And the detachment marched off towards the barracks.
"Ohlsen," said Tavernay, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what does it matter? Come!"
"Ohlsen" was Tony Stretton, and all the way along the Rue Daya to the barracks he was longing for the moment when he would put on the uniform and cease to figure ridiculously in this grotesque procession. None the less he had to wait with the others, drawn up in the barrack-square until Captain Tavernay returned. The Captain went to his office, and thither the recruits were marched. One by one they entered in at the door, answered his questions, and were sent off to the regimental tailor. Tony Stretton was the last.
"Name?" asked Tavernay.
"Hans Ohlsen."
"Town of enlistment?"
"Marseilles."
Tavernay compared the answers with some writing on a sheet of paper.
"Yes, Marseilles. Passed by the doctor Paul as sound of body. Yes," and he resumed his questions.