“All good things must end,” grunted Greg, rising to his feet, “even this rest.  Mess will be on in eight minutes.”

The instant that the door had closed Dick drew off his olive drab shirt, drew out a lidded box from under the bed and deposited the shirt therein, next restoring the box to place bring out a basin from under the bed and placing it on a chair, he found towel and soap and busied himself with washing up.  His toilet completed, he took a clean shirt from a bundle on one of the neatly arranged shelves and donned the garment.  A few more touches, and, spick-and-span, clean and very soldierly looking, he descended to the ground floor.  A glance into the mess-room showed him that the noon meal was not yet ready, so be sauntered to the doorway, remaining just inside out of the sun’s rays.

Other officers gathered quickly.  A waiter from mess appeared at the inner doorway, speaking a quiet word that caused the regiment’s officers, except the colonel and his staff, to file inside.

Plain pine tables, without cloths, long pine benches nailed to the floor—–­officers’ mess was exactly like that of the enlisted men, save that officers’ mess was provided with heavy crockery, while in the company mess-rooms the men ate from aluminum mess-kits.

Most of the food was already in place on the table.  The meal began with a lively hum of conversation.  Occasionally some merry officer called out jokingly to some officer at another table; there was no special effort at dignified silence.

“The K.O. has our number!” exclaimed an irrepressible lieutenant.

“How so?” demanded Noll Terry, Prescott’s first lieutenant.

“He knows us for a bunch of shirkers, and so he gave us the ‘pep’ talk this morning.”

“Is the ‘pep’ going to work with you?” asked Noll laughingly.

“Surely!  I wouldn’t dare be slow, even in drawing my breath, after hearing the K.O. talk in that fashion.”

“Same here,” Noll nodded.

“I’ve been working sixteen hours a day ever since I hit camp,” chimed in another lieutenant.  “What’s the new system going to be?  Eighteen hours a day?”

“Twenty, perhaps,” said Greg’s first lieutenant cheerfully.

The meal had been under way for fifteen minutes when Captain Cartwright entered leisurely.

“I suppose you fellows have eaten all the best stuff,” he called, as he looked about and found a vacant seat, though he paused as if in no great haste to occupy it.

“Same old Cartwright,” observed Greg, in an undertone to Dick.  “He’s late, even at mess formation.”

But Cartwright heard, and wheeled about, looking half-angrily at young Captain Holmes.

“Say, Holmes, you’re as free as ever with your tongue.”

“Yes,” Greg answered unconcernedly.  “Using it to taste my food, and I’ve been finding the taste uncommonly pleasant.”

“You use your tongue in more ways than that,” snapped Captain Cartwright.  “I happened to hear what you said about me in Prescott’s room a few minutes ago.”