Corder feels that he has had a narrow escape. The captain sent for him and offered him the position of equipment sergeant, or some such title, which means some minor responsibility and a seat on one of the baggage trucks. Corder, in a panic, begged permission to stay with the squad and carry his gun; and the captain, saying how disgusted the bugler was with his new job, and that two disappointed men in the company were more than he could stand, let him off. Corder, after telling us the tale, got out his mirror and studied himself. “It’s all this confounded beard of mine,” he complained. “I’m only forty-five, and my hair is still black, but the thing has turned gray and makes me seem old. It’s sickening to have the fellows so thoughtful of me. Godwin, if ever you get respectful, I’ll slay you.”
The shooting records are posted, and to our great satisfaction our company stands best. That doesn’t mean that we have the highest individual score, or even the greatest number of expert riflemen. But it does mean that we have both the most men in all three qualified grades and the highest average score per man. Practically that means that of all the six companies we should be deadliest against an infantry attack, also that as a consequence we should ourselves be safest. As Pickle says, “The captain has done one good job.”
The forehanded among us (and yet after all we are at it pretty late) are making maps for the hike in imitation of those which the officers have posted for us to study. At the Exchange can be bought contour maps of all this region, covering the whole area of the hike. These we are cutting out in squares and pasting on linen, cheese-cloth, or even mosquito netting. Then we mark on them the camps, the route, and all along the way the important crossroads within a mile of our march, which we number according to the officers’ sample. If after this we can get some shellac, we coat the map against the weather. Had I only known enough, I should have brought with me proper cloth, glue and shellac for this purpose; for of course the rush for these materials has practically used up all neighboring supplies.
Between showers today we have begun our preparations for the hike, directions concerning which were read us. We have turned in our condiment-cans and bacon-tins—so much less weight to carry. David is in secret dismay over the small equipment which is allowed us, and has spent many long minutes over the beautiful little sole leather trunk which he keeps under his cot, and which contains so many knickknacks. He has been making little piles here, and little piles there, and then, with knitted brow, changing them all about. He has not asked for advice, and none of us has offered it. Pickle, whose personal outfit is of the most meagre, has been watching him in delight.
However, David is permanently lightened of one part of his equipment. Word went round that we were to have rifle-inspection, at which there rose in the tent a great clamor for patches, of which we had none, nor the store tent either. David was absent, and Knudsen, saying “I’ll get patches,” asked Clay for his surgical scissors, and going to David’s cot, took from the great collection of conveniences which the boy still hoped to take with him, a set of his beautiful silk pajamas. The jacket Knudsen tore into strips (we all the while watching in pregnant silence) then cut them into squares, and when David returned we were all at work on our guns.
“They tell me,” he said, “that we’re to have rifle inspection. Have you fellows any patches?”
“Plenty,” said Knudsen, and handed him some made out of the gaudiest part of the pattern.
David, as he inspected these, first grew very red, then hastily demanded, “Who cut these up?”
“I did,” said Knudsen very serenely. “No pajamas on the hike, David.”
And the boy, who is still very proud of coming into his own name, laughed, asked for Clay’s scissors, and cut up the rest of his suit. Then he stuffed into his trunk the other pair which he had intended to take with him on the hike.