There was more inconsequent huddling, which seemed so purposely awkward that it irritated Si, and he spoke sharply:
"Gosh all Krismuss, what's the matter with you lunkheads? Don't you know nothing? You're dummer'n a lot o' steers."
"Guess we know 'bout as much as you did when you first enlisted," said the smallest of the lot, a red-cheeked, bright-eyed boy, who looked as if he should have been standing up before a blackboard "doing a sum" in long division, instead of on his way to the field of strife. "Show us how, and we'll learn as quick as you did."
Si looked at the fresh young boy. There was something actually girlish in his face, and it reminded him of Annabel. His heart softened toward him at once, and he remembered his own early troubles. He said gently to the boy:
"You're right. What's your name, my boy?"
"Abel Waite."
"Well, Abel, we'll make a soldier out of you in a little while. You are the smallest; you'll be the left of the line. Go and stand there at the corner. Now, boys, all lay your bundles down. Here, you tall fellow, what's your name?"
"James Bradshaw."
"Well, Bradshaw, you'll be the right of the line all the time, and the rest 'll form on you. Come, stand here."
Bradshaw shambled forward in a way that made Shorty call out: