The lieutenant frowned, gave the car a sudden exasperated burst of speed, then slowed down somewhat. “Unsatisfactory. Hang it, they won’t come! Only two of ’em, Mills and Jackson, who’re at my house now.”
“Did you really think they’d volunteer?”
“No,” said Traile shortly, “I didn’t. The ones who’ll jump at the job will be the sweet lads who drilled in safe camps and never so much as saw a transport.”
“Oh, well,” Stacey replied coolly, “that wasn’t their fault, and no more’s their point of view. You’re a funny cuss, Traile! Here you are, wanting men to show up, yet I’m blessed if you aren’t railing at the ones who do and praising your men because they don’t!”
“That’s right,” admitted the other, laughing sheepishly. “But then, aren’t we all that—funny cusses, I mean—we chaps who saw the real show?” he added meditatively. “Anyhow, will you try them, Captain? Maybe,” he concluded diffidently, “they’ll come for you.”
Stacey nodded. “I’ll try,” he assented. “How many enlisted men of C Company, your company, live here?”
“Twelve,” said Traile promptly.
“And how many of D Company—do you happen to know?”
“Ten. Here we are.”
They turned into a curved driveway leading up to a handsome residence. Traile hurried Stacey out of the car and down the hall of the house to the library.