“Ready!”
Harris’ fist traveled a bare five inches and tapped Wetzel lightly on the chin.
“Oof!” grunted the sergeant cooperatively and staggered back to a point where he could collapse on the softest of the two cots.
The exchange of clothes was quickly effected. Except for the pants —which persisted in dropping down to Kurt’s ankles—and the war bonnet—which with equal persistence kept sliding down over his ears —he was ready to go. The pants problem was solved easily by stuffing a pillow inside them. This Kurt fondly believed made him look more like the rotund sergeant than ever. The garrison bonnet presented a more difficult problem, but he finally achieved a partial solution. By holding it up with his left hand and keeping the palm tightly pressed against his forehead, it should appear to the casual observer that he was walking engrossed in deep thought.
The first two hundred yards were easy. The corridor was deserted and he plodded confidently along, the great war bonnet wobbling sedately on his head in spite of his best efforts to keep it steady. When he finally reached the exit gate, he knocked on it firmly and called to the duty sergeant.
“Open up! It’s Wetzel.”
Unfortunately, just then he grew careless and let go of his headgear. As the door swung open, the great war bonnet swooped down over his ears and came to rest on his shoulders. The result was that where his head normally was there could be seen only a nest of weaving feathers. The duty sergeant’s jaw suddenly dropped as he got a good look at the strange figure that stood in the darkened corridor. And then with remarkable presence of mind he slammed the door shut in Kurt’s face and clicked the bolt.
“Sergeant of the guard!” he bawled. “Sergeant of the guard! There’s a thing in the corridor!”
“What kind of a thing?” inquired a sleepy voice from the guard room.
“A horrible kind of a thing with wiggling feathers where its head ought to be,” replied the sergeant.