"Who'll get the grand bounce for running the guard last Thursday night?" roared a voice, just as the captain and his new-found acquaintance reached the door of the company quarters; and, "Smith—Private Smith!" came back the answering yell.
"Yes, and the captain's got a recruit for your place, me boy," said a man standing near the door of the equipment-room, catching sight of Stearns' guest. "Come here, Smithy, and get onto the new un that's going to stuff out your uniform."
Stearns caught this last remark and smiled at it, for he had found recent occasion to "read the riot act" to one Private Smith, and he remembered having said that he might feel compelled to give that unruly warrior's uniform to some man more worthy of filling it.
In the snug officers' dressing-room the two lieutenants were engaged in freeing themselves from their heavy, uncomfortable dress-coats. Both looked up as the captain entered, and both laughed when he said, "Gentlemen, I have the honor of presenting Major Larry Callahan, who has inspected the regiment, and expresses complete satisfaction at its apparent efficiency. He more especially dwells upon the soldierly bearing of the drum-corps, though he criticises the complexion of the musician at the forward end of the boomer-drum, making the point that the presence of this black sheep among our tuneful lambs is in doubtful taste. I might add that he aspires to the position himself. Harry," to the second lieutenant, "you're smoking a cigarette! It's a nasty and often fatal habit—and you may give me one. It's the first article of war that a junior officer always must set 'em up for his superiors."
Stearns lighted the cigarette which this gentle hint brought forth from his subaltern's case, hung his heavy helmet upon a projecting gas-burner, and began leisurely to strip himself of his trappings.
"Where did you get it?" asked the senior lieutenant, nodding at Larry, and then turning to deposit his sword and belt in his locker.
"He introduced himself to me, down in the hall," replied the captain, sighing contentedly as he flung his coat, with its row of jingling marksman's medals, across the nearest chair. "I'm to have the pleasure of his company at lunch, as soon as I can get into street costume. I crave food, and—by the Great White Label!—I crave pure, sparkling, cold water, or anything cold and wet," and he softly hummed to himself,
"No-bod-y knows how dry-I-am!"
"Then you'll not come over to the club with us?" asked the younger lieutenant, ruefully. "I know it seems a journey—way across town on a day like this—but we'd counted on your coming. Westbrook, of the Fourth, is going to meet us, and possibly Van Sickles will be there. Can't you fix it?"