NICK RABIG TURNS UP
"What is that? Shrapnel?" asked Bart, one morning, as he opened his eyes after the reveille and heard the rain beating a tremendous tattoo on the roof.
"Hardly as bad as that," laughed Frank. "If it were, I bet you'd be out of that cot more quickly than you're doing it now. But it sure is coming down."
"So much the better," said Bart, as he jumped out and hastily began to dress. "That'll cut out the drill to-day and I'll have time to answer some of my letters and darn my socks."
But such roseate dreams were quickly dispelled. The storm increased in violence after breakfast and the wind blew great guns.
The Y.M.C.A. building was being erected for the use of that organization but was not yet completed. In the meantime, the Association had put up for temporary use a canvas tent, and as the storm increased in fury the flimsy structure gave every evidence of taking to itself wings and flying away.
The captain ordered a detail of men to go out and surround the tent and hold the tent pins down by main force if necessary.
There was nothing alluring about the prospect, for it meant a thorough drenching for the entire detail.
But the boys had already learned the first great rule of military life—to obey instantly any command given by a superior officer.
So Frank and Bart, who happened to be among those chosen for the work, jumped at the word. But they also had the soldiers' immemorial privilege of grumbling among themselves, and Bart chose to exercise it as they made their way in the teeth of the storm to the threatened tent.