"Then what were they good for?" demanded Lieutenant Prescott crisply.
"Eh?" breathed Ferrers, looking puzzled.
"If they didn't work, if they didn't do anything real in the world, what were they good for? What was their excuse for wanting to live?" insisted Prescott.
"Prexy, old chap, I'm afraid you're an anarchist," gasped Algy, looking almost humanly distressed.
"No; you're the anarchist," laughed the other lieutenant, "for no anarchist ever wants to work. Come, now, Ferrers, buck up! Go over the drill manual with me."
For two days Algy did seem inclined to buckle down to the hard work of learning how to command other men efficiently. Then one night he fell.
That is to say, he went off the reservation without notifying any of his superior officers.
At the sounding of drill assembly the next morning, every officer on post was present with the one exception of young Mr. Ferrers.
"Where's that hopeless idiot now?" muttered Colonel North peevishly, for he had come down to see the battalion drill.
"I haven't the least idea, sir," replied Major Silsbee.