“I want to say that you are the most undisciplined body of men I ever saw. That—er—mélée you staged when you were unwittingly marched into—er—contact with a body of enlisted men was the most disgraceful exhibition on the part of officers so-called I ever saw in my life. I—er—want to say you are a disgrace to the service. That’s all I want to say. Oh, I—er—believe Lieutenant Crosby has something to say to you.”
Flying-Lieutenant Crosby stepped forward and cleared his throat. He was a born Babbitt, a destined getter-together.
“Men,” he began, and then hesitated. Perhaps he should have said “officers,” but that wouldn’t have sounded right either. He rushed on, “I want to remind you that Happy’s and Sam’s funeral is this afternoon. All flying is called off as usual. There wasn’t much of a crowd out for poor old Bill yesterday. I know it’s a long walk and all that but we want to get a good crowd out this afternoon. The cadets are going to try to get a good crowd out for their fellow who got bumped, and we want to get a good crowd out too. That’s all I wanted to say.”
He retired to the ranks. The fat officer shouted “Dismissed!” Then he changed his mind.
“As you were. The commanding officer wanted me to announce that quarantine to the post is on again until the perpetrator of the outrage of stopping the Paris Express has been discovered and punished. Dismissed!”
The half-broken ranks scattered in the direction of their barracks. Toward the one with the unfinished end went three oddly dissimilar figures. They were always together, and of course some one had already thought of calling them “The Three Musketeers.”
One was short, dark and slim, with pathetic eyes and a dispirited mustache. Another was tall and lathy, with a long lugubrious countenance. The third was blond and almost corpulent.
“I knew it, Tommy, I knew it,” said the tall man. “How come you and ‘Fat’ to pull such a stunt, anyway? Ain’t such a joke now, is it? What’re you going to do about it?”
The three entered their barrack and sat down on a bunk near the open end, well away from the crowd huddled around the stove in the middle. The little man gazed sadly before him.
His mustache drooped dolefully. Some observant person had remarked that he could read Tommy by his mustache. When it was freshly waxed and pert, he was just going on a party. When it was sorry and unkempt, he had just been on one.