“Farnham? Farnham?” said the man with the short pointed beard. The others turned and looked at him. “I remember now. You were in my section in English A, your Freshman year.”
“Oh,” said young David. “Professor Corder. Of course. How de do? I remember that you flunked me.”
“But you got through English D after two tries,” said Corder. “Such is college life.”
As none followed up the subject, I asked where they got their equipment. On their direction I went to the store-tent at the head of the street, where on the strength of my signature an obliging regular intrusted to me various listed articles, which I lugged to the tent.
This domicile is in the shape of a pyramid on a three foot wall, about sixteen feet on a side, the whole supported by a solid post held by an iron tripod. The tent contains eight beds, the corporal’s always to the right of the entrance, the others in a mystic order which I will not bother you with. As yet we did not know how we were to fall in, but I set up my cot modestly among the rear rank, put under it my suit case, laid on the cot a mattress and pillow, properly cased in light duck, and garnished the whole with three blue blankets which promise comfort in this September weather. And then I dove into the blue bag.
First on the list, a sweater, o. d., like all the outfit, and very heavy.
A poncho. A rubber oblong with button-holes along three sides, and a slit, provided with a collar, less than halfway down the middle.
A shelter-half. That was the strangely shaped piece of brown duck, in pattern something like a big old-fashioned kite, with unsymmetrical button-holes and loops of rope.
Five tent-pins. Aluminum, ridged and bent.
A pack. A queerly outlined piece of canvas, provided with straps of webbing, wider or narrower, with buckles, rings, and a big pocket. Its attachments numerous and incomprehensible.