Then came a young officer, immaculately attired, his leather leggings shining, his uniform fitting him as if he had been moulded into it. He wore little rimless eye-glasses. He might lead a raiding party for all that; but he was a bit pompous and very self-conscious. Tom was rather gratified to see him hailed aside.
Nothing.
Down they came, holding both rails and lifting their feet to swing, like school boys—hundreds of them, thousands of them, it seemed. Tom watched them all keenly as they passed out like an endless ribbon from a magician's hat. There seemed to be no end of them.
There came now a fellow whom he watched closely. He had blond hair and blue eyes, but no glasses. He looked something like—something like—oh, who? Fritzie Schmitt, whom he used to know in Bridgeboro. No, he didn't—not so much.
But his blond hair and blue eyes did not escape Mr. Conne.
Nothing.
"Yes, sir."
A hundred more, two hundred, and then a young sergeant with glasses.
While this young man was undergoing his ordeal (whatever it was, for Tom kept his eyes riveted on the gangway), there appeared the tall figure of a lieutenant. Tom thought he was of the medical corps, but he was not certain. He seemed to be looking down at Mr. Conne's little group, with a fierce, piercing stare. He wore horned spectacles of goodly circumference and as Tom's eyes followed the thick, left wing of these, he saw that it embraced an ear which stood out prominently. Both the ear and the piercing eagle gaze set him all agog.