To which, concealing a deep hurt, the sergeant had replied: “Praying earnestly for you both.”
He was, then, womanless. No one loved him. He was going to war, and no one would mourn him—except the family, of course. The effect of the tepid coffee on his empty stomach was merely to confirm his morning unhappiness. No one loved him and he had made a fool bet that by now was all over the troop.
At mess he knew what he stood committed to. “Please pass the bran muffins,” came loudly to his ears. And scraps of conversation like this:
“But you see, dear old thing, I didn’t know your horse was going to stick his head under my nose when I sneezed.”
Or:
“But, my dear general, the weakness of the division lies in your staff. Now, if I were doing it——”
By one o’clock in the afternoon the troop were ready to move. And Sergeant Gray went into the town. There he tried on a new uniform—and the story of Sergeant Gray’s new uniform is the story of the bran muffins.
It was really a beautiful uniform. Almost it took away the sting of that telegram; almost it obliterated the memory of the wager. It spread over his broad shoulders and hugged his slim waist. The breeches were full above and close below. For the first time he felt every inch a soldier.
He carried the old uniform back to camp and gave it to the cook.
“Here, Watt!” he said. “You’ve been grumbling about clothes. Cut the chevrons off it, and it’s yours.”