The hearty cheering which had begun with the first shudder of the train increased to wild applause of the little act of gallantry. Inside the car the young volunteers were also voicing noisy appreciation. It was merely an incident, and yet it served to impress on those left behind the belief that the welfare of their boys was in good hands.
As the train continued to move slowly out of the long shed the cheering was kept up. This time it was for the Khaki Boys themselves. It met with an equally fervent response on their part, accompanied by a frantic waving of hands, hats and handkerchiefs. The Khaki Boys were started at last on the first stretch of the Glory Road.
CHAPTER III
THE BEGINNING OF COMRADESHIP
“Did you see the way that officer grabbed those roses from under the wheels?” demanded Jimmy excitedly, as he and Roger settled back in their seats. The train had now left the shed behind and was steadily gathering momentum. “Pretty clever in him, wasn’t it?”
Roger nodded. “It showed that he was interested in us even if we are just rookies. I wonder how long it will take us to look as well in our uniforms as he does in his? What did you do with your Infantry Manual? We ought to be studying up a little while we’re on the way.”
Roger referred to the little blue books he and Jimmy had purchased at a department store soon after their enlistment. As he spoke he reached into a pocket of his coat and drew his own forth.
“Mine’s kicking around in my suitcase somewhere,” grinned Jimmy rather sheepishly. “I’ve been intending to study it, but I’ve had so many other things to do. Put it back. Don’t go to studying now. I want to talk to you. Time enough for us to get busy when we hit Camp Sterling. Maybe I didn’t hate to leave Old Speedy behind, though. Next to the folks comes Speedy and after that Buster, my brindle bull pup. That dog certainly knew I was going away for keeps when I said good-bye to him. But he won’t be neglected. Buster has lots of friends. Everybody on our street knows him. Next to me he likes Mother. She’ll take good care of him. But poor Old Speedy’ll have a lonesome time shut up in the garage. It’s such a giddy-looking machine you couldn’t hire the folks to ride half a block in it. But you can’t have everything, so what’s the use of worrying?”
His active mind leaping from the subject of his car back to the officer whose recent kindly act he had so sturdily commended, he continued irrelevantly: “Say, an officer that would do a thing like that ought to be good to his men. Don’t you think so? I’ve heard a lot of stuff about officers being regular cranks and jumping all over their men just for spite. Do you suppose it’s true?”
“No, I don’t,” Roger made emphatic return. “I don’t believe that part of it is much different in the Army from what it is in a shop or factory or an office. Only, of course, there has to be stricter discipline in the Army. I’ve worked in a good many different places and I’ve found out that the way you’re treated most always depends on the way you do your work. Of course, wherever you go you’re sure to meet some people you won’t like and who won’t like you. If you mind your own business and let ’em alone, generally they’ll let you alone.”
“But suppose they don’t? What then?”
“Well,” Roger looked reflective, “I never had that happen to me but once. It was when I worked in that shipping department. There was a boy about my size or maybe a little bigger who wouldn’t let me alone. He’d make mistakes and then lay them to me. At last I got sick of it and gave him a good licking. He let me alone after that. You couldn’t do that with an Army officer, though. You’d have to stand it and say nothing. Anyway, I don’t believe you’d find one officer in a thousand that wouldn’t treat you fairly. It’s just as much to them to have the respect of their men as it is to the men to have the good will of their officers.”
Unconsciously Roger had voiced the opinion that prevails from coast to coast among both commissioned and non-commissioned officers in the United States Service. The mistaken impression that those who have been placed in commands in the National Army are a brow-beating, bullying lot is fast passing. The Army officer of to-day respects himself too much to abuse his authority. He also values the good will of his men too greatly to abuse them. All this, however, the Khaki Boys were presently to learn for themselves.
“I guess your head’s level,” conceded Jimmy. “I’m glad you licked that shipping-room dub. I hate a sneak!”
The explosive utterance caused the heads of two young men in the seat in front of their own to turn simultaneously in Jimmy’s direction. One of them, a dark, thin-faced lad with twinkling black eyes and a wide, pleasant mouth, spoke. “Hope you didn’t mean me,” he offered good-humoredly. The other, stockily-built, his pale, stolid features bearing the unmistakable cast of the foreigner, stared at Jimmy out of round, china-blue eyes, with the unblinking gaze of an owl.
“Course not,” apologized Jimmy, reddening. “Why should I mean you?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.” The smiling lips widened to a broad grin. “You said it pretty loudly. It almost made me jump.”
“Well, I meant it,” maintained Jimmy stoutly, “but not for you. I meant it for any fellow, though, who isn’t square and above-board.”
“Shake.” The black-eyed youth half-raised himself in his seat and offered Jimmy his hand. His companion continued to stare dumbly, as though dazed by the suddenness of the whole thing.
“I saw you at the recruiting station the other day,” observed Roger, addressing the boy who had offered his hand. “You were just coming out of the place as I was going in.”
“I saw you, too,” nodded the other. “That used to be my business; just seeing people and things and writing ’em up afterward. I was a cub reporter on the Chronicle. Then I got the enlisting habit and here I am.”
“Every morning I read him, that paper,” announced a solemn voice. The dumb had come into speech. “You write him?” The questioning round blue eyes looked awe upon his seatmate.
“Ha, ha! That’s a good one,” shouted the ex-reporter gleefully. “Say, Oscar, what do you take me for?”
“That is no my name. It is Ignace; so. Ignace Pulinski,” was the calm correction. “I am one, a Pole.”
“Well, ‘Ignace So Pulinski, one, a Pole,’ you’ve got another think coming. I used to write about this much of the Chronicle. See.” The boyish news-gatherer indicated a space of about three inches between his thumb and first finger.
“That is no much.” Ignace relapsed into disappointed silence. Nor did he offer a word when his energetic companions proposed turning their seat so as to face Jimmy and Roger. He lumbered awkwardly to his feet and sat stolidly down again as though moved by invisible strings.
“I was lucky to get that some days.” Now seated opposite his new acquaintances the reporter resumed the subject of his recent occupation. Noting Roger’s and Jimmy’s patent amusement, their friendly vis-a-vis winked roguishly at them and continued, “Well, no more of it for me. What branch of the service did you fellows enlist in?”
“Infantry,” came the concerted answer. “We thought we’d like to be sure of a front place in the big fight.”
“You’ll get it,” was the grim assurance. “This war’s going to last long after we’ve hit the trenches in France and done our bit. We’re lucky to be going to Sterling. It’s one of the best camps in the country. It was one of the first to be laid out. I was