Returned to barracks three more men of Platoon 4, Company E, were added to the list of sufferers from that sinister seizure. As a result those still unvisited by it were promptly ordered to report at the regimental hospital for treatment. The fact that a number of Company E men at drill in other platoons had also collapsed had increased the gravity of the affair to a point that required instant action on the part of the medical department. The symptoms of the peculiar malady were such as to indicate poisoning. They called for speedy investigation and the administering of a precautionary antidote to such of the men as had thus far showed no signs of sickening.
It was the first real catastrophe that had ever struck Camp Sterling and the news of it spread like wildfire throughout the camp. To one and all it seemed almost incredible that a “poison plot” had reached successful culmination in Company E mess kitchen. Undoubtedly it had centered there. None other than men from Company E’s barracks had felt any ill effects from their noon meal. Yet who could guess as to how far such a calamity might extend?
Released from drill for the balance of the day, the half hour between Retreat and mess that evening marked the ending of a troubled afternoon in Company E barracks. An air of deep gloom hung over the squad room in which the four Khaki Boys bunked.
Bob, Jimmy and Roger were in especially low spirits. Ranged in a dejected row on Roger’s cot they were a most unhappy trio.
“It’s awful,” groaned Jimmy. “Poor old Iggy. He looked ready to croak when they took him to the hospital. What do you suppose it was that poisoned ’em? We ate the same stuff they did and we’re all right—yet.”
“Don’t you know yet what poisoned ’em?” Bent forward, chin in hand, Bob straightened up with a jerk. “I’ll tell you. It was the rice pudding. We didn’t touch it, but poor old Iggy did.”
“By George, that’s so! I must be thick not to have doped out that much for myself. I’d forgotten about Iggy’s starting to eat it.”
“So had I.” Roger looked disgusted at his own forgetfulness. “That’s why a lot of men didn’t get sick. They passed up the pudding, too, because Thanksgiving sweet stuff made ’em finicky.”
“I caught it the minute that rain-maker over at the hospital asked me what I ate for dinner,” declared Bob. “He gave me a queer look when I told him ‘no pudding’ and made a note of it. I was going to mention it to you, then I thought I’d wait and let you figure it out.”
“Then they must know it already at headquarters,” asserted Jimmy.