"You—you young rough-necks!" says he. "I—I'll make you sweat for this. You'll see!"
"Harken, fellow Gogs!" says Beans. "The candidate presumes to address your Grand Worthy in terms unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. I would suggest that we suspend the ritual until by some means he can be brought to his better senses. Can anyone think of a way?"
"Sure!" someone sings out. "Let's give him Days Gone By."
The vote seems to be unanimous and the proceedin's open with Brother Beans waggin' his finger under Hartley's nose. "Kindly recall November 22, 1917," says he. "It was Saturday, and my leave ticket read from 11 a. m. of that date until 11 p. m. of the 23rd. You knew who was waiting for me at the Matron's House, too. And just because I'd changed to leather leggins inside the gate you called me back and put me to scrubbing the barracks floor, making me miss my last chance at a matinée and otherwise queering a perfectly good day. Next!"
"My turn!" sings out half a dozen others, but out of the push that surges toward Hartley steps a light-haired, neat dressed young gent, who walks with a slight limp. "I trust you'll remember me, lieutenant," says he. "I was Private Nelson, guilty of the awful crime of appearing at inspection with two grease spots on my tunic because you'd kept me on mess sergeant detail for two weeks and the issues of extra uniforms hadn't been made. So you gave me double guard duty the day my folks came all the way down from Buffalo to see me. Real clever of you, wasn't it?"
One by one they reminded Hartley of little things like that, without givin' him a chance to peep, until each one had had his say. But finally Hartley gets an openin'.
"You got just what you needed—discipline," says he. "That's what made soldiers out of you."
"Oh, did it!" says Brother Beans. "Then perhaps a little of it would qualify you for the High Command. Shall we try it, Most Worthy Buddies?"
"Soak it on him, Beans!" is the verdict, shouted enthusiastic from all sides.
"So let it be," says Beans solemn. "And now, candidate, you are about to be escorted forth where the elusive cigar-butt lurks in the gutter and scraps of paper litter the pavement. As an exponent of this particular brand of discipline you will see that no small item escapes you. Should you be so remiss, or should you falter in doing your full duty, you will be returned at once to this room, where retribution waits with heavy hands. Ho, Worthy Buddies! Invest the candidate with the sacred insignia of the empty gunny sack."