Though Mock limped all the way in, he came in exactly at the tail of the battalion. As the last company halted on the drill ground Sergeant Lund came back for him, relieving the guards.
"Mock, until you've been examined," said the top, "you're not to go beyond battalion bounds."
"Am I in arrest?" demanded Mock, his face set in ugly lines.
"You're confined within battalion bounds. Remember that," saying which First Sergeant Lund turned and strode away.
Nor was Mock a happy man. Holmes arranged that a regimental surgeon should come over to B company barracks later and make a careful examination of Sergeant Mock's feet. For some reason the surgeon did not come promptly. The evening meal was eaten, and darkness settled down over Camp Berry. Mock, still limping and looking woeful, kept out in the open air.
"Psst!" came sharply from somewhere, and Mock, turning, saw a man in civilian garb standing in the shadow of a latrine shed.
"Come here," called the stranger. Still surly, but urged by curiosity,
Mock obeyed the summons.
"I don't want to be seen talking with you," murmured the stranger, in a low voice, "but I want to offer you my sympathy. Say, but a man gets treated roughly in the Army. That captain of yours—-"
As the stranger paused, looking keenly at Mock, the disgruntled sergeant finished vengefully:
"The captain? He's a dog!"