was goin' on. A steam roller was smoothin' out a
strip of pavement that had just been relaid, and nearer by a gang was
tearin' up more of the asphalt. I got kind of interested in the way they
was doin' it, too. You know, they used to do this street wreckin' with
picks and crowbars, but this crowd seemed to have more modern methods.
They was usin' three of these pneumatic drills and they sure were
ripping it up slick and speedy. About then I noticed that their
compressor was chugging away nearly opposite me and that the lines of
hose stretched out fifty feet or more.

"Say!" says I jerky and breathless, but to nobody in particular. I was
just registerin' the fact that I'd had a sudden thought.

A few minutes before, too, I'd seen a squad of rookies wander past and
into the park. I remembered noticin' what a husky, tanned lot they were,
and from their hat cords that they belonged to the artillery branch.
Well, that was enough. In a flash I'd shinned over the stone wall and
was headin' 'em off.

You know how these cantonment delegations wander around town aimless
when they're dumped down here on leave waiting to be shunted off quiet
onto some transport? No friends, mighty little money, and nothing to do
but tramp the streets or hang around the Y. They actually looked kind of
grateful when I stops 'em and returns their salute. As luck would have
it there's a top sergeant in the bunch, so I don't have to make a
reg'lar speech.

"It's this way, sergeant," says I. "I'm looking for a few volunteers."

"There's ten of us, sir," says he, "with not a thing on our hands but
time."

"Then perhaps you'll help me put over something on a boss ditch digger,"
says I. "It's nothing official, but it may help General Pershing a whole
lot."

"We sure will," says the sergeant. "Now then, men. 'Shun! And forget
those dope sticks for a minute. How'll you have 'em, lieutenant--twos or
fours?"

"Twos will look more impressive, I guess," says I. "And just follow me."

"Fall in!" says the sergeant. "By twos! Right about! March!"

So when I rounds into the street again and bears down on this gang
foreman I has him bug-eyed from the start. He don't seem to know whether
he's being pinched or not.

"What's your name, my man?" says I, wavin' the Q. M.'s order
threatenin'.

It's Mike something or other, as I could have guessed without him near
chokin' to get it out.

"Very well, Mike," I goes on, as important as I knew how. "See those