“Oh, I’m not hurt much,” was the easy answer. “Next time I’ll give you plenty of room when there’s bayonet drill.”
Whether Pug liked this or not, he did not say. But he went away muttering to himself.
Ned was soon back with his chums again, drilling away, and dreaming of the time when he and they could go to France to fight the Huns. But much preliminary work was necessary. It was, as has been said, drill, drill, drill from morning until night.
Meanwhile the boys were beginning to appreciate what the army life was doing for them. They were becoming better physically, every day; as hard as nails and as brown as berries.
They wrote enthusiastic letters home, and received letters in reply, giving the news of Cresville. Matters there were about the same. There had been no more “peace” meetings, though it was said that Mr. Schaeffer and his fellow pro-Germans were contemplating another big meeting as a protest against the draft, which had been put into operation.
The place where the fire had been was still a heap of ruins, Mrs. Hopkins wrote Jerry, and it had not been cleared because of a dispute over the insurance money. Mr. Cardon, the Frenchman, had recovered from his experience, though he still talked about the loss of his money, which, he insisted, a man with a crooked nose had stolen.
“I think his story is true,” wrote Mrs. Hopkins. “But nobody has seen the man with the crooked nose, and there is positively no trace of Mr. Baker’s watch nor of my diamond brooch. Mr. Martley’s creditors have found his affairs in such a mess that there will be next to nothing coming to them—so if the watch and brooch are not recovered we will have to stand the loss ourselves.”
“Isn’t that the limit!” cried Jerry, as he read this portion of the letter to his chums.
“It sure is,” remarked Ned.
“I’ll bet my dad feels sore,” put in Bob.