"Does Corporal Herbert Brewster of Cleveland, Ohio, live here?" asked Tom.
"You, Tom! you!"
"Don't try to get up on that bad ankle." He rushed over and grabbed Bert's hand. "How are you?"
"What in the world are you doing at Murphytown?—or whatever they call this end of the mud-puddle. And how are all the people? When did you see mother and father last?"
Tom held up his hands in surrender; then, as he sat down on the edge of the bedding, Bert took him by the shoulders and shook him. "They're all fine. I'm here to enlist, Corporal. Will you have me in your squad?"
"You bet! Tell me about home."
Bert had been among the first to enlist, and, except for one furlough of two weeks, he had not been able to return home. Many minutes passed before Tom reached the point of his own departure from Cleveland; how he had gained the consent of his father and mother to his enlistment; his trip to Murfreesboro and all his adventures and misadventures en route. "And, by the way," he ended, "the Captain said that I was to tell you that he'd be here to see you soon. And what did you do to your ankle?"
"The Captain's coming to see me, eh? Humph! A lot of good that'll do me.
Was he talking with the doctor?"
"Yes."
"Humph!" Bert plunged into thought.