But it was to the soldier outside that Crittenden’s heart had been drawn, for it was his first stirring sight of the regular of his own land, and the soldier in him answered at once with a thrill.  Waiting for Rivers, he stood in the door of the hotel, watching the strong men pass, and by and by he saw three coming down the street, arm in arm.  On the edge of the light, the middle one, a low, thick-set, black-browed fellow, pushed his comrades away, fell drunkenly, and slipped loosely to the street, while the two stood above him in disgust.  One of them was a mere boy and the other was a giant, with a lean face, so like Lincoln’s that Crittenden started when the boy called impatiently: 

“Pick him up, Abe.”

The tall soldier stooped, and with one hand lifted the drunken man as lightly as though he had been a sack of wool, and the two caught him under the arms again.  As they came on, both suddenly let go; the middle one straightened sharply, and all three saluted.  Crittenden heard Rivers’s voice at his ear: 

“Report for this, Reynolds.”

And the drunken soldier turned and rather sullenly saluted again.

“You’ll come right out to camp with me,” repeated Rivers.

And now out at the camp, next morning, a dozen trumpets were ringing out an emphatic complaint into Crittenden’s sleeping ears: 

    “I can’t git ’em up,
    I can’t git ’em up,
        I can’t git ’em up in the mornin’,
    I can’t git ’em up,
    I can’t git ’em up,
        I can’t git ’em up at all. 
    The corporal’s worse than the sergeant,
    The sergeant’s worse than the lieutenant,
    And the captain is worst of all.”

This is as high up, apparently, as the private dares to go, unless he considers the somnolent iniquity of the Colonel quite beyond the range of the bugle.  But the pathetic appeal was too much for Crittenden, and he got up, stepping into a fragrant foot-bath of cold dew and out to a dapple gray wash-basin that sat on three wooden stakes just outside.  Sousing his head, he sniffed in the chill air and, looking below him, took in, with pure mathematical delight, the working unit of the army as it came to life.  The very camp was the symbol of order and system:  a low hill, rising from a tiny stream below him in a series of natural terraces to the fringe of low pines behind him, and on these terraces officers and men sitting, according to rank; the white tepees of the privates and their tethered horses—­camped in column of troops—­stretching up the hill toward him; on the first terrace above and flanking the columns, the old-fashioned army tents of company officer and subaltern and the guidons in line—­each captain with his lieutenants at the head of each company street; behind them and on the next terrace, the majors three—­each facing the centre of his squadron.  And highest on top of the hill, and facing the centre of the regiment, the slate-coloured tent of the Colonel, commanding every foot of the camp.