But the second mess sergeant had picked up the inkwell and was fingering it purposefully.
“All right, dear old thing,” said Sergeant Gray.
And he rose, stretching his more than six feet to the uttermost. Then he made his way through the rows of beds to the sergeant’s corner, and removing his blouse, his breeches, his shoes and his puttees was ready for sleep. His last waking thought was of his wager.
“A bran muffin with the Old Man!” he chuckled. “A bran muffin! A——”
Something heavy landed on his chest with a great thump, and after turning round once or twice settled itself there for the remainder of the night. Lying on his back, so as to give his dog the only possible berth on the tiny bed, Sergeant Gray, all-American athlete and prime young devil of the Headquarters Troop, went fast asleep.
Reveille the next morning, however, found him grouchy. He kicked the dog off his legs, to which the animal had retired, and reaching under his pillow brought out his whistle. He blew a shrill blast on it. The lower squad room groaned, turned over, closed its eyes. He blew again.
“Roll out!” he yelled in stentorian tones. “R-r-roll out, you dirty horsemen!”
Then he closed his eyes again and went peacefully to sleep. He dreamed that the general was carrying a plate of bran muffins to his bedside, and behind him was a pretty girl with coffee and an ear like an interrogation point. He wakened to find breakfast over and the cook in a bad temper.
“Be a sport, Watt,” he pleaded. “Just a cup of coffee, anyhow.”
“I fed your dog for you. That’s all you get.”