"He had that tag all over him," says Quigley. "But we're knockin' a lot of that out of him. He's comin' on."
"Good!" says I. "Would it stop the process to let him off for an evenin' with the folks—dinner and so on?"
"Why, no; I guess not," says Quigley. "Might do him good. But he must apply himself. Send him along."
So a half hour later I sat on a cot in the cow-barn and watched Wilfred, fresh from the shower bath, get into his army uniform.
"Say," he remarks, strugglin' through his khaki shirt, "I didn't think old Quig would do it."
"Seemed glad to," says I. "Said you was comin' on fine."
"He did?" gasps Wilfred. "Quigley? Well, what do you know!"
Not such a bad imitation of a soldier, Wilfred, when he'd laced up the leggins and got the snappy-cut coat buttoned tight. He's some different from what he was when sister first discovered him. And we had quite a gay dinner together.
First off mother was for campin' right down there indefinitely, where she could see her darlin' boy every day; but between Wilfred and me we persuaded her different. I expect the hotel quarters had something to do with it, too. Anyway, after Wilfred had promised to try for a couple of days off soon, for a visit home, she consents to start back in the mornin'.
"What I dread most, Wilfred," says she, "is leaving you at the mercy of that horrid sergeant."