Open-mouthed and eager we watched and, while watching, a strange-looking figure of a soldier ambled, or shuffled, up the path toward our place.  He was a man about 45, though looking more like 55, quite grizzled, furrowed face, and a stubby mustache, thickly stained with tobacco juice, decorated his upper lip.  He was chewing tobacco as if his life depended on the quantity of juice he could extract from each mouthful, and dried tricklings of the liquid ornamented his chin.  As he came toward us his face was turned upward, taking in the scrimmage in the sky.  “What’s them bloody things?” he asked, indicating the air sausages.  He had evidently just come up the line fresh from England.  I told him and he jerked out an indelible pencil and made a note, sucking the lead of the pencil two or three times before he finished, and this habit, continuous with him, kept his lip constantly stained with the indelible lead.

Just then a mighty roar of delight went up from the entire crowd, as our bird gobbled the last remaining sausage, but our indelible friend paid no attention to the uproar,—­he simply took out his little book and made another note.

The “Fall-in!” whistle was blown and we were a bit surprised as well as amazed to see our strange friend fall in in front, still chewing vigorously; he evidently didn’t know or didn’t care a damn whether it was against the rules to chew tobacco when parading.  The Sergeant-Major eyed him curiously and then stepping to his side whispered something; we knew he was explaining to him that he was infringing orders, but a non-commissioned officer is not permitted to bawl out another non-com in the presence of the men.  Hastily bestowing the quid in his hand he stood to attention.  Roll call finished and we retired to our bunks.

Early next morning when we emerged from our quarters the first person we saw was the odd-appearing individual that had joined up with us the night before, with his inevitable note book in his hand.  He was still busily sucking his indelible pencil in the corner of his mouth, and, in the light of the morning sun, there was nothing about his mug that was any more prepossessing than appeared in the twilight of the previous night.  He also had on the sleeve of his coat a crown, indicating that he was to be our acting Sergeant-Major in the absence of the regular officer, and when not so acting, he was to be the First Sergeant of the section.

The official activity of our new friend commenced to be evidenced in a number of ways; he lost no time in making us understand that he was First Sergeant.  “Sergeant Grant, detail two men for the cookhouse!” Then to the gunners, “Here, you, clean up your wagons and take off all that mud; it’s filthy”; this was absolutely unnecessary and the fellows swore vehemently under their breath; to the drivers,—­“Clean up that ’ere ’arness and get that mud hoff it”; he also compelled us to burnish the steel and made the gunners scrub the paint off the brass and sandpaper it up.  This necessitated the men going to a shop and purchasing the sandpaper themselves, as disobedience of the order meant a sojourn in the clink and the excuse that he had no sandpaper would not go.