“Go ahead, Page,” commanded the lieutenant.  “Kill him, Dobson! . . .  Good work!  Any enemy, struck like that in earnest, could safely be left to himself.  Dobson, you be the fleeing enemy this time.  Aldrich, take the blob-stick.”

One after another the men of the skeletonized platoon took their try with the blob-stick.  As is usual in the run of human affairs, some of the men made the thrust excellently, others indifferently, and some missed altogether.

“Rest,” ordered the lieutenant, presently, and the men stood at ease in the platoon line.

“Some of you men do not get hold of this bayonet work as well as I could wish,” Dick spoke up, all eyes turned on him.  “The man who learns his bayonet work thoroughly has a reasonably good chance of coming back from Europe alive.  The man who learns it indifferently has very little chance of seeing his native land at the close of the war.  Remember that.  Bayonet fighting is one of the things no American soldier can afford to be dull about.  Lieutenant Morris, if you will pick up a blob-stick we can show these men some of the value of swift work in the simpler thrusts and parries.”

Each armed with a blob-stick, captain and second lieutenant faced each other.  Dick, scowling as though facing an enemy whom he hated, advanced upon his subordinate, making a swift, savage lunge aimed at the other’s abdomen.  In a twinkling the thrust had been parried by Lieutenant Morris, who, at close quarters, aimed a vicious jab at his captain’s wind-pipe.  That, too, was blocked.  Warming up, the two officers fought without victory for a full three-quarters of a minute.  Then, at a word from Prescott, each drew back.

“Every one of you men, by the time you reach France, should be able to fight faster and better than that,” Dick announced.

Down the line an infectious smile ran.  It seemed to these soldiers impossible that a more skillful or a swifter bit of combat work could be put up than they had just witnessed.

“You two men, at the right, bring your rifles here,” Prescott ordered, and the bayoneted rifles were brought and handed to the two officers.

“Now, Lieutenant Morris, the first four series, as fast as we can go through them,” Dick commanded.

Bang! bump! flash!  Rifle barrels rang as they crossed; butts bumped hard against barrel or stock, and glittering steel flashed in the sunlight as the two infantry officers advanced and retreated in a savage, realistic contest.  It really seemed as though Lieutenant Morris and Captain Prescott were bent on annihilating each other.  Could this fierce, mutual onslaught be pretense—–­play?  Then, as the last move of the fourth series was executed the two infantry officers jumped back a step each and dipped the points of their gleaming blades by way of courtesy.  The other three platoons of the company had stopped drill to watch.  How the thrilled men of A company wished to applaud and cheer!