“There are them,” he said from his experience. “But not many.”
As they approached the station some stragglers were gathering to wait for the train, and the two remained near the far end of the platform. A monotonously repeated command forced itself to their attention. On a stretch of bare, hard-trodden sand, a company of the town guard was drilling in the twilight. About forty slim, loose-jointed youths were advancing and wheeling under the direction of a stocky, middle-aged man who walked like a rooster and shouted indistinguishably, in the evident belief that the tone was the thing. The Inger walked to the edge of the platform, and stared at them.
“That’s the United States Army,” he said, not without reverence.
She made no comment, and they watched the whole line in columns of four, advancing in double time. The rhythmic motion of the khaki legs vaguely touched the Inger with sensuous pleasure.
“Ain’t it grand?” he said.
“Grand!” repeated the girl. “It’s the limit.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking round at her.
“When they march,” she said, “I always think: ‘Dead legs, dead legs, dead legs.’ I hate ’em.”
He smiled tolerantly.