NICK RABIG TURNS UP
"What is that? Shrapnel?" asked Bart, one morning, as he opened his
eyes after the reveille and heard the rain beating a tremendous tattoo
on the roof.
"Hardly as bad as that," laughed Frank. "If it were, I bet you'd be
out of that cot more quickly than you're doing it now. But it sure is
coming down."
"So much the better," said Bart, as he jumped out and hastily began to
dress. "That'll cut out the drill to-day and I'll have time to answer
some of my letters and darn my socks."
But such roseate dreams were quickly dispelled. The storm increased in
violence after breakfast and the wind blew great guns.
The Y.M.C.A. building was being erected for the use of that
organization but was not yet completed. In the meantime, the
Association had put up for temporary use a canvas tent, and as the
storm increased in fury the flimsy structure gave every evidence of
taking to itself wings and flying away.
The captain ordered a detail of men to go out and surround the tent and
hold the tent pins down by main force if necessary.
There was nothing alluring about the prospect, for it meant a thorough
drenching for the entire detail.
But the boys had already learned the first great rule of military
life--to obey instantly any command given by a superior officer.
So Frank and Bart, who happened to be among those chosen for the work,
jumped at the word. But they also had the soldiers' immemorial
privilege of grumbling among themselves, and Bart chose to exercise it
as they made their way in the teeth of the storm to the threatened tent.
"Just our luck to catch the captain's eye," he muttered.
"Stop your grumbling," adjured Frank. "Think how much worse it would
be if we were plowing through the mud in No Man's Land. Let's make a
lark of it."
"We'll be up among the larks all right," returned Bart, "if this thing
ever gets away from the tent pins." They laid hold of the straining
ropes and hung on for dear life. "An aviator would have nothing on us."
It was hard work while it lasted and their sturdy muscles were put to
the test, but they had the satisfaction of keeping the tent in its
place and after a while the storm subsided and the danger was over.
"Isn't it about time for those drafted men to get down here?" asked
Frank, as they were on their way back to the barracks.
"I heard yesterday from Billy Waldon," returned Bart, "that two or
three regiments were expected to-day. Up to now all the fellows here
have been volunteers. I'm curious to see how the drafted men will take
to the life."
"I suppose some of them will be sore at having had to come whether they
wanted to or not," replied Frank. "Still there will be lots of good
fighting material in them. I've heard Peterson say that the drafted
men in the Union Army fought as well as the volunteers. They'll all be
good Americans when they face the Huns."
Even as they spoke they heard the far-off music of a band and saw the
men who were off duty hurrying toward the great gate of the camp.
"I shouldn't wonder if some of them were coming now," remarked Frank.
"Let's leg it to the gate and see them come in."
They reached a favorable position just as the first of the advancing
troops entered the camp. The boys studied them critically and in a
somewhat patronizing spirit, for they already felt like veterans and
were inclined to look down a little upon the "rookies."
There was, of course, a good deal to criticize about the newcomers.
Most of them, up to a few days before, had never touched a gun in their
lives, many of them were in civilian clothes, and although they tried
to keep in line and step briskly to the music of the band, their
marching was ragged.
Some of them, used to a sedentary life, were winded, even by that short
hike of three miles to the camp. They were raw material in the fullest
sense of the word. But the officers who led them and the men who
watched them, knew perfectly well what wonders could be wrought in that
outfit by a few weeks or months of training.
The regiment broke ranks as soon as they were fairly within the
precincts of the camp.
"Look there!" cried Frank suddenly, as his eyes fell upon one of the
near recruits. "If that isn't Tom Bradford, I'll eat my hat."
"Sure thing!" shouted Bart, as he looked in the direction Frank had
indicated. "Hi there, Tom!" he yelled, and they both made a break for
the place where Tom was standing.
In a moment they each had one of his hands and were shaking it as
though they would wrench it off.
"Good old scout!" ejaculated Frank. "How in the name of all that's
lucky did you get here?"
"Oh, I'm like a postage stamp?" grinned Tom, delightedly. "I stick
until I get there."
"But I thought they wouldn't take you when you tried to enlist," said
Frank, a little bewildered.
"Can you beat it?" returned Tom. "When I wanted to enlist they
wouldn't have me. Then when I was moping along and raving against fate
I was called up in the draft. The doctors there passed me without
letting out a peep. Say, maybe I wasn't tickled to get in on any
terms. It makes me sore though, to think I can't be in the old
Thirty-seventh along with the rest of you fellows."
"Never mind," said Frank. "The main thing is, you're here. We'll be
in the same camp and in the same division and we'll be able to see a
lot of each other."
"I'm not the only Camport fellow that's here," chuckled Tom.
"Is that so?" said Frank with interest. "Who is it?"
"Give you three guesses," grinned Tom.
"Hal Chase!"
"Wrong," said Tom.
"Will Baxter!"
"Come again."
"Dick Ormsby!"
"You're all off," replied Tom. "But you'd never guess in a thousand
years and so I'll put you out of your misery. It's Nick Rabig."
"Nick Rabig!" they yelled, in unison.
"Cross my heart and hope to die," laughed Tom, enjoying the amazement
of his comrades.
"Nick Rabig, in a Yankee uniform!" chortled Frank.
"And going to fight the Huns!" crowed Bart. "Say, isn't it rich?"
"How does he feel about it," asked Frank, surprise and glee giving way
to curiosity.
"Like a bear with a sore head," responded Tom. "Of course he doesn't
dare to say much, but what he's thinking isn't fit for publication!"