"Meet Sergeant Keith. He's a Canadian. Been through the whole game."
Five minutes later Buzz's fine white torso rose above his trousers like a great pillar. Unconsciously his sagging shoulders had straightened. His stomach was held in. His chest jutted, shelf-like. His ribs showed through the pink-white flesh.
"Get some of that pork off of him," observed Sergeant Keith, "and he'll do in a couple of Fritzes before he's through."
"Me!" blurted Buzz, struggling now with his shirt. "A couple! Say, you don't know me. Whaddyou mean, a couple? I can lick a whole regiment of them beerheads with one hand tied behind me an' my feet in a sack." He emerged from the struggle with his shirt, his face very red, his hair rumpled.
Sergeant Keith smiled a grim little smile. "Keep your shirt on, kid," he said, "and remember, this isn't a fist fight you're going into. It's war."
Buzz, fumbling with his hat, put his question. "When—when do I go?" For he had signed his name in his round, boyish, sixth-grade scrawl.
"To-morrow. Now listen to these instructions."
"T-to-morrow?" gasped Buzz.
He was still gasping as he reached the street and struck out toward home. To-morrow! When the Kearney girl again stepped out of the tree-shadows he stared at her as at something remote and trivial.
"I thought you tried to give me the slip, Buzz. Where you been?"