"What's the matter, Sergeant?" the young captain inquired pleasantly.
Mock made as though trying to rise from the ground to stand at attention, but his lips twisted as though he were in pain.
"Rest," ordered Greg, "and tell me what ails you."
"My feet are killing me, sir," groaned the sergeant.
"That's odd," Captain Holmes commented. "You were all right at assembly—-lively enough then. Has half an hour of marching used up a sound, healthy man?"
Instantly the sergeant's look became surly.
"All I know, sir, is that I could hardly stand on my feet. So I had to drop out. If you'll permit it, sir, I shall have to get back to camp the best way I can."
"If you're that badly off I'll have an ambulance sent for you," Greg went on. "But I don't understand your feet giving out so suddenly. Take off one of your shoes and the sock."
"That may not show much, but I'm suffering just the same, sir," rejoined the non-com in a grumbling tone.
"Let me see," Greg insisted.