2 breeches, O. D. wool, prs. 2 coats, O. D. wool. 1 overcoat, O. D. wool. 1 slicker. 1 hat. 1 cord (cavalry, infantry, artillery). 3 undershirts, cotton. 3 underbreeches, cotton, prs. 5 socks, light wool, prs. 5 shirts, flannel, O. D. 2 shoes, field, prs.
Sergeant Gray’s Destiny, working by devious ways, had given the camp inspector a headache, a bad breakfast, a shirt lost by the laundry and a wigging by somebody or other. Into the bargain it was a fine day for golf and here he was looking over breeches, O. D. wool, pairs, two; and so on.
Into the barracks then came fate in the shape of the camp inspector, military of figure and militant of disposition, to count the pins for shelter halves, for instance, and generally to do anything but swing a golf club, as his heart desired. The men lined up by their equipment and the inspector went down the line. And he opened, by evil chance, Sergeant Gray’s condiment can and found the space-to-let notice inside.
He looked at it, and then he looked at the tall sergeant. Now to save all he could of his twenty-three and a half hours’ leave Sergeant Gray had put on his new uniform, which was against the rules. He had obeyed the regulations exactly as to his hat cord, whistle, collar insignia, buttons and shoes. Otherwise from his healthy skin to his putties he wore not a single issue article.
The second mess sergeant eying him before inspection had warned him.
“You’ll get into trouble with that outfit, Gray,” he had said. And Gray had replied that if he did it would be his trouble.
“Possibly,” had been the second mess sergeant’s comment. “But if you put him in a bad humour and get him started—there’ll be hell to pay.”
And now there was to be hell to pay. And the inspector, who might have been expected to walk in one door and out another but did not, stood off and surveyed him coldly.
“Issue uniform?” he demanded.
“N-no, sir.”