Assuredly the officers felt the heat as much.  Yet from time to time Captain Prescott fell out from his place at the head of the company and allowed the line to march by, observing every good, indifferent or bad feature of their marching, and correcting what he could by low spoken commands.  Whenever the last of the company had passed Prescott ran along by the marching men until he had gained the head.  If the men suffered acute discomfort in marching Prescott experienced more suffering in running under that hot sun.  But he was intent only on the idea of having the best company in what he fondly hoped would turn out to be the best regiment in the Army.

For some minutes Greg had been aware that Sergeant Mock, of his company, was hobbling along.  Now, as he turned to glance backward, he saw Mock step out of the ranks, go to the side of the road and sit down.

A glance at his wrist watch, and Greg saw that the first half-hour was nearly up.  In a minute or two more, he knew Major Bell would give the order for a counter-march, and the first battalion would swing and come back on its own trail.  So Captain Holmes turned and ran back to his non-commissioned officer.

“What’s the matter, Sergeant?” the young captain inquired pleasantly.

Mock made as though trying to rise from the ground to stand at attention, but his lips twisted as though he were in pain.

“Rest,” ordered Greg, “and tell me what ails you.”

“My feet are killing me, sir,” groaned the sergeant.

“That’s odd,” Captain Holmes commented.  “You were all right at assembly—–­lively enough then.  Has half an hour of marching used up a sound, healthy man?”

Instantly the sergeant’s look became surly.

“All I know, sir, is that I could hardly stand on my feet.  So I had to drop out.  If you’ll permit it, sir, I shall have to get back to camp the best way I can.”

“If you’re that badly off I’ll have an ambulance sent for you,” Greg went on.  “But I don’t understand your feet giving out so suddenly.  Take off one of your shoes and the sock.”

“That may not show much, but I’m suffering just the same, sir,” rejoined the non-com in a grumbling tone.

“Let me see,” Greg insisted.

While the sergeant was busy removing a legging and unlacing a shoe Captain Holmes glanced up the road to discover that the battalion was counter-marching.

“Be quick about it, Sergeant,” Greg urged.

Moving no faster than he had to, Mock took off his shoe, then slowly turned the sock down, peeling it off.

“Is that the worst foot?” Greg demanded, in astonishment.

“I don’t know, sir; they both hurt me.”

“Do you want to show me the other foot, or do you wish to get back among the file closers?”

“I—–­I can’t walk, sir.”

Down on one knee went Greg, carefully inspecting the foot and feeling it.  The skin was clean, rosy, firm.