In ten minutes one hundred and ninety-five men stood to attention in their undergarments, and in the center of each squad room lay a great heap of discarded khaki.
“Leaving us rather stripped, sir,” ventured the captain.
“They’ve got their slickers,” curtly observed fate; “and the quartermaster will fix you up all right.”
He went out. Jove, what a day for golf!
“Sergeant!” called the captain.
He avoided the baleful eyes of his men and looked out of a window. He was rather young and terribly afraid he would laugh.
The supply sergeant, thus called, came forward and saluted. He was a queer figure in his woolens, and the captain coughed to recover his voice.
“Put—put on your slicker,” he said, “and carry this order to the camp quartermaster. And hurry!”
Now all the balance of this story rests on that order to hurry, for it came about that the supply sergeant, running, put his toe under the edge of a board and fell heavily, and a military policeman, discovering thus that the sergeant wore no breeches, placed him immediately under arrest.
“Oh, very well,” said the supply sergeant politely; and put the order in his slicker pocket. If they chose to arrest a man for a thing he couldn’t help let them do it. He didn’t absolutely know what was in the order and if he could sit in the bull pen the troop could sit in its underwear. It was nothing whatever to him.