rk from a little town in Connecticut. Our corporal
is Bannister, manager of the routing department, whatever that may be, of
a tool-making establishment near Detroit. For a mixed crowd, of ages from
grizzled Corder down to the very new graduate, what could be better? The
captain, having put us all in place, called us to attention without any
fuss, and stated that the new Number Four men were to be our squad
leaders "until such time as other men proved themselves to be better.--So
go to it," he added grimly. Then he marched us back to the street, where
the tents were all freshly numbered with chalk, and dismissed us to put
our beds in the proper order.

Since military regulations cover the positions of beds in the tent,
almost every man had to shift his place. A genius discovered that this
was a good time to begin with a level floor, the idea ran rapidly from
squad to squad, and presently the street was filled with piled cots and
heaped baggage, while from each door came clouds of dust. Our floor
levelled, taking care to preserve the pitch of the ridge that runs
through it, we moved in again, even before the dust was settled. As I am
Number One of our front rank, I bunk to the left of the door; peer around
the opening, and you will see my feet. Our rifles and bayonets we keep in
a gun rack that leans against the tripod of the tent-pole; and our
surplus clothes we hang from a square frame that is suspended higher up.
These two conveniences are squad property, being bought at a dollar each
from a Jewish-looking gentleman who offered them for sale, their evident
usefulness forcing the bargain. As they are most roughly built of light
lumber, and have plainly served in each of the previous camps this year,
there is good profit to the speculators who supplied them in the first
place, and who gather them up when they are abandoned at the breaking up
of each camp, only to sell them again. The tax on the squad is not great,
but I wonder why the camp management allows outsiders such princely
takings.

Feeling energetic, I began digging out the old ditch that surrounds our
tent, to make it better able to carry off water in the next storm.
Knudsen insisted on doing his share, then Corder took the spade from him
for the next side. When Pickle, who was standing ready, said "_You_ don't
need to work," Corder asked plaintively, "Do I seem as old as that?" So
he was allowed to do his stint. Lucy placidly watched us.

Then, it being yet