George's name was read among the first.
"To be captain of infantry, United States Reserve—George Morton."
There was something very like affection in the West Pointer's voice.
"I recommended you for a majority, Mr. Morton. Stick to the job as you have here, and it will come along."
Lambert and Goodhue found him as he crowded with the rest through the little door. They had kept their captaincies. Even Goodhue released a little of his relief at the outcome.
"Any number busted—no time to find out whether they were good or bad."
The dark, hot, sandy street was full of shadowy figures, calling, shouting, laughing neurotically.
"Good fellow, but I had you on my list." "My Lord! I never expected more than a private in the rear rank." "What do you think of Blank? Lost out entirely." "Rotten deal." "Not the only one by several dozens." "Hear about Doe? Wouldn't have picked him for a shave tail. Got a captaincy. Teacher's pet."
Brutally someone had turned on the barrack lights. Through the windows the successful ones could see among the bunks the bowed and silent figures, must have known how sacrilegious it was to project their happiness into this place which had all at once become a sepulchre of dead sacrifices.
"I hope," George muttered to his friends, "I'll never have to see quite so much suffering on a battlefield."