“Worse!” Dick replied dryly and briefly.

Cartwright sighed, then took a tighter grip on the swagger stick that he carried jauntily in his right hand.  Cartwright was a smart, soldierly looking chap, but was well known as an officer who was not addicted to hard work.

Past three or four barrack buildings on the street the chums walked, Cartwright still keeping just behind them.

“Look at the work of Sergeant Mock, will you?” demanded Greg, halting short as they came to the edge of one of the drill grounds.

Mock belonged to Greg’s own company.  At this moment the sergeant was busy, or should have been, drilling what was supposed to be a platoon, though to-day it consisted of only two corporals’ squads, or sixteen men in all.

Greg Holmes’s eyes opened wide with disgust as he watched the drilling, unseen by the sergeant.

The platoon had just wheeled and marched off by fours.  The cadence was too slow, the men looked slouchy and showed no signs whatever of spirit.

“Perhaps the sergeant isn’t feeling well,” remarked Dick, with a smile.

“He won’t be feeling well after he has talked with me,” Greg uttered between his teeth.

To the further limit of the drill ground the sergeant marched his platoon, then wheeled them and brought them back again.  As he came about the sergeant caught sight of his company commander.  In an undertone he gave an order that brought his men along at greater speed than they had gone.

“Halt!” ordered the sergeant, and brought up his hand in salute to the officers.

“Sergeant Mock,” called Holmes, in a low, even voice, “turn the men over to a corporal and come here.”

Hastily, and flushing, Sergeant Mock came forward.

“How are the men feeling?” Greg inquired, after signaling the corporal now in charge to continue the drilling.

“Tired, sir,” replied Mock, with a shamefaced look.

“And how is the sergeant feeling?” Greg went on, as the corporal led the men across the drill ground, this time at a sharper pace and correcting any fault in soldierly bearing that he observed.

“All right, sir,” replied the sergeant.

“Then, if you’re feeling all right, Sergeant Mock,” Greg continued in as even a voice as before, “explain to me why you were marching the platoon at a cadence of about ninety, instead of the regulation hundred and twenty steps per minute.  Tell me why the alignment of the fours was poor, and why the men were allowed to march without paying the slightest heed to their bearing.”

Though there was nothing at all sharp in the company commander’s voice, Mock knew that he was being “called,” and, in fact, was perilously close to being “cussed out.”

“The—–­the day is hot, sir, and—–­and I knew the men were about played out,” stammered Mock.

“How long have you been in the Army, sergeant?” Greg continued.