To the further limit of the drill ground the sergeant marched his platoon, then wheeled them and brought them back again. As he came about the sergeant caught sight of his company commander. In an undertone he gave an order that brought his men along at greater speed than they had gone.
"Halt!" ordered the sergeant, and brought up his hand in salute to the officers.
"Sergeant Mock," called Holmes, in a low, even voice, "turn the men over to a corporal and come here."
Hastily, and flushing, Sergeant Mock came forward.
"How are the men feeling?" Greg inquired, after signaling the corporal now in charge to continue the drilling.
"Tired, sir," replied Mock, with a shamefaced look.
"And how is the sergeant feeling?" Greg went on, as the corporal led the men across the drill ground, this time at a sharper pace and correcting any fault in soldierly bearing that he observed.
"All right, sir," replied the sergeant.
"Then, if you're feeling all right, Sergeant Mock," Greg continued in as even a voice as before, "explain to me why you were marching the platoon at a cadence of about ninety, instead of the regulation hundred and twenty steps per minute. Tell me why the alignment of the fours was poor, and why the men were allowed to march without paying the slightest heed to their bearing."
Though there was nothing at all sharp in the company commander's voice, Mock knew that he was being "called," and, in fact, was perilously close to being "cussed out."