THE PRICE OF BEING A MAN
The occasion was the encampment of the Colorado National Guard, and the
scene was a few miles outside of Denver.
Here was some of the real glory of the soldier's life!
At the head of the line rode two troops of cavalry belonging to the
regular Army.
Immediately behind these yellow-legs an awe-inspiring drum-major strode
along, his glittering, ball-tipped staff going through many smart
movements. Right behind him came the Thirty-fourth U. S. Infantry Band,
crashing out a soul-stirring march.
At the heels of the band rode Colonel North, Major Silsbee and staff, a
splendid, soldierly looking lot in saddle.
Then the head of A Company, Captain Ruggles commanding. B Company next,
and to B Company fell the honor of being color company and escorting
the Flag. C and D behind--the whole khaki-clad battalion moving at
easy swing, and yet in the straight, precise lines that only regulars
know how to display, however close near-soldiers may imagine they come
in excellence. Over all, in brisk cadence, and in exact time to the
spirited music ahead, sounded the steady whump! whump! whump! of the
exactly gaited feet of regulars on the march.
No wonder the crowd that lined the sides of the road cheered! No wonder
that girls waved handkerchiefs! Here and there men, youths and boys who
knew enough lifted their hats as the colors passed.
It is strange that not all American males, of all ages, know that the
hat is to be raised from the head and lowered to place over the heart
as the national colors are borne by.
Yet all of those of the male spectators who did not know enough to
uncover on the approach of the colors still felt the glory of the
scene. Love of the military is common to all true-beating hearts. The
country dies in which this love of the military vanishes.
Behind the infantry lumbered the guns and caissons of two batteries of
field artillery, drivers alert and gunners sitting up very straight,
yet appearing wholly at ease.
It takes the man of military experience to be both erect and at ease at
the same time. Some civilians come very close in this achievement, but
theirs is the imitation grace of personal carriage.
At the extreme left of the line marched a platoon of engineer troops
and a detachment of men from the signal corps.
The regulars were now in the last half mile of the march down a
beautifully shaded road that led to the broad fields on which the
encampment was pitched this year.
Hundreds of boys were following the parade as a matter of course. Where
is the live boy whose heart is dead to the soldiers?
As the Thirty-fourth's band played out the final notes of the march,
the order for route step marching ran down the line.
Just then, from a parallel road less than a quarter of a mile away,
another band blared forth in a quickstep. The crowd was quick to turn
and look.
Through the intervals between trees and bushes could be seen another
line of military. An entire brigade of the National Guard was over on
that road, also headed for the encampment field.
"Hey, Tommie!" called one boy to another. "Cut across with me. There's
about ten miles of sogers over there!"
"Chase yourself, if you wanter go," yelled back Tommie. "They're
militia. Me for here, with the real-thing sogers, just back from the
wars!"
There was a laugh from many in the crowd, while the smaller boys
whooped. It was hard even for the erect regulars in ranks to repress
their grins when they received that tribute from a discerning small boy.
But the small American boy, even if ignorant of everything else in the
soldier's manuals, can usually be depended upon to know the difference
between regulars and militiamen. To the small boy's mind the difference
is as great as that between the circus and the country fair.
Uncle Sam's musicians struck up again, just as the column entered the
encampment field.
Wagon trains had gone on ahead.
Regulars and national guardsmen broke ranks at nearly the same moment.
Then followed an exhibition that some of the spectators never forgot.
In about a half an hour the regular troops had their tents up, in
straight, precise company streets, and all their belongings moved in.
Nor were these the "dog-tents" of field duty. As the encampment was to
last for a week, the regulars slept at night in full-sized Army tents,
with several men in each tent.
At the end of two hours the national guardsmen were still perspiring
over their tasks of pitching camp.
The regulars, cool and wholly at ease, were going about other camp
duties.
"Look at the amateurs over yonder," grinned Corporal Noll Terry,
calling his chum's attention to the brigade of national guardsmen.
"Poor fellows, it's a good deal like work for them," remarked Hal.
"They're not drilled in this thing all the time."
"They go about it like so many clowns," laughed Noll.
"Now, I wouldn't say that," urged Corporal Hal. "Remember, the national
guardsmen do other things for a living, and do this work for love of
state and country."
"But why do they need to be such boobs about pitching a camp?" demanded
Noll.
"Because it isn't their accustomed business," Hal retorted.
"Bosh! The tin soldiers make me tired," laughed Corporal Noll.
"Then you want to change your attitude," warned Hal, "for you've
got the wrong view, old fellow. There probably isn't a man over in
that militia brigade who wouldn't make a smart enough regular if he
enlisted."
"Now, I don't know about that," argued Corporal Noll seriously.
"I can remember the time, not very long ago, Noll, when you and I were
greener than any militiaman over yonder."
"We were green," admitted Corporal Terry, "but not green in the same
way that those state troops are. Some how, regulars and militiamen are
quite a different proposition from the very first day."
"True," agreed Corporal Hal. "But what makes the difference?"
"Well, what does?"
"The difference in officers, and in the methods that can be used.
Militia officers have to make soldiering the study of their leisure
hours, just as the guardsmen in the ranks do. Our regular officers are
first given a hard training, and then make a life study of soldiering.
Keep those guardsmen in camp for three months, and put regular officers
over them all the time, and I tell you, Noll, they'd make most of us
regulars look hard to our laurels."
"I don't know," muttered Corporal Terry dubiously.
"Then you want to think it over," retorted Hal. "Just remember that
regulars and militiamen are both enlisted from the people at large. Put
any militia regiment in the country through a regulation three-years'
enlistment in the Army and under regular officers, and that militia
regiment would then be the equal of any regular regiment in the line.
Noll, the whole difference lies in officers, opportunity and training.
Don't ever look down on national guardsmen unless you want to prove
yourself less of a soldier than I think you are."
"Corporal Terry!" summoned Sergeant Gray, and Noll hurried off to some
new duty, but he was thinking. Corporal Hal had shown him how to look
at the national guardsmen from another point of view.
The day was one of arduous duties, but with nightfall came a period of
rest. More, some of the regulars in each company, troop or battery were
granted town leave. There was a trolley line near at hand that carried
many a pleasure-loving regular into town.
Corporals Overton and Terry went by themselves.
"As we have never seen Denver, I guess it will be about enough for us
to look around and see what we can of the town, won't it?" proposed Hal.
"Yes; if we keep to the main streets. I feel as though I may want
to squander a bit of my pay on ice cream and such frothy trifles,"
returned Noll.
"We won't spend it, anyway, on anything that will make us forget the
limits of our leave and turn delinquents," returned Hal.
"Small danger of that," retorted Corporal Terry. "That game doesn't go
with the making of good soldiers."
"I don't believe Captain Cortland will have any delinquents to deal
with this time," predicted Hal. "He doesn't intend to have the Mason
City business done over again."
Denver proved full of delights to these soldier boys, who had really
seen very little of the world.
But, being under orders to return to camp not later than midnight, the
time came when they must think of getting back.
"I wonder what's the quickest way to the trolley line?" pondered Noll.
"We'll ask our way," Hal answered.
They had no trouble in getting clear directions from a passing citizen.
The shortest way led down through a narrow street that appeared to
belong to a rough part of the city.
"I wouldn't care to live on this street," smiled Noll.
"Hardly," agreed Hal. "Yet I guess it won't hurt us any just to walk
through."
Ere the soldier boys had gone more than two blocks their attention was
attracted by sounds of a commotion in a crowd just ahead.
A crowd had started to collect, and was every moment increasing in size.
"Wonder what's up?" murmured Noll Terry, as the soldier boys quickened
their pace.
"Some earthquake in the under world, I suppose," returned Hal.
Just then the scream of a woman's voice reached them.
"Shame! shame!" cried half a dozen male voices in protest.
Then the same voice sounded, in sobs this time.
Hal Overton had broken into a run, and Noll was almost at his side. The
soldier boys pushed their way into the crowd.
A brutish, square-jawed young fellow of twenty-one or twenty-two,
dressed loudly, and with an ill-smelling cigar between his teeth at one
side of his mouth, held a sobbing girl by the wrist.
"Cut out the boo-hoo story, Lizzie, and come along with me to the
dance," he ordered gruffly.
"I don't want to go," faltered the terrified girl. "You know well
enough, Bill, that my mother don't want me going to dances with you."
"What's your old woman got against me?" demanded the young brute.
"You know well enough, Bill, that mother don't like you, and that she'd
sooner see me dead than running around with you."
"She won't have her wish to-night, then, Liz. You're going to waltz
with me. You know that wot I say goes, and it's the hop for yours
to-night."
"Shame!" cried some one back in the crowd. "Let the girl go home."
"Mind your own biz," growled back the bully, "or I'll step over there
and make some changes in yer style of face."
Evidently Bill was known as an ugly customer. Close to him, on the
other side from the girl, stood another man, somewhat older and
exhibiting the promise of even more brute strength. Plainly he stood
by to back Bill up against interference that the crowd might want to
attempt. The pair of bullies were such as a city crowd usually doesn't
care to risk meddling with.
"Wipe off the boo-hoo, Lizzie, and come along," ordered the fellow who
held the girl's wrist. "No use of making a fuss. You're headed for the
waltz with me."
"Shame!" some one in the crowd had courage enough to utter again, as
Bill, still holding the girl's wrist, started to force her along the
sidewalk.
"What do you more decent people expect to do by just talking?" Corporal
Hal Overton demanded angrily.
"Hullo, brass-button boy!" called Bill cheerily, turning and leering at
the youthful-looking corporal. "When did you blow out of the sewer?"
[Illustration: "Let Go That Young Lady's Wrist."]
"If that young lady wishes to go home, let her do so," ordered Hal
sternly.
"So?" queried Bill mockingly. "But maybe that won't suit me."
"Then let go of the young lady's wrist, for you'll need both hands up
in front of you," warned Hal, springing forward, his hot blood flushing
his face with righteous anger.
"Get out, ye tin-soldier militiaman!"
"If it makes any difference," retorted Hal, "we happen to be regulars."
"No difference at all," the young brute leered. "I eat both kinds!"
"Let go that young lady's wrist!"
"Sure!"
Bill did so, and the girl shrank back through the pressing crowd. But
Bill aimed a crushing blow at Corporal Hal Overton.
Hal wasn't just on the spot to receive it. But the next instant he and
Bill were exchanging hard blows at a rate that made the crowd yell with
delight.
"Go it, Bill! Go it, buttons!"
Bill's tough friend reached out to hit Hal from the side. Corporal Noll
jumped in, throwing up the fellow's arm. There were two real fights on
now.
How it would have ended it would be impossible to say. Strong, daring
and skilled though they were, the soldier boys might have been beaten
by superior strength.
But a heavy, blue-coated figure darted in, scattering the combatants.
Then a Denver policeman gripped both Hal and Noll by the collar.
"Stop it! Stop, I tell ye!" ordered the policeman gruffly.
"Ye've got good game there, Johnson," called out the fellow Bill.
"They're a nasty pair of brass buttons. They insulted my girl, and then
pitched into me and my friend."
"I'll run these soldier-loafers in, Bill," agreed the policeman. "We've
got too many of these soldier-loafers in the country. It's time for
some of 'em to learn something."
For Bill and his friend were a pair of amateur thugs who were most
useful to the ward's ruling political machine. Bill and his friend were
often extremely useful in cleaning out hostile primaries, and in other
dirty work incidental to city politics.
"Officer!" protested Corporal Hal.
"Shut up, ye loafer!" ordered the policeman.
"But this is----"
"Will ye shut up, now?"
The policeman gave the soldier boy a vigorous shaking.
"The soldiers were in the right of it, Johnson," protested a voice in
the crowd.
"Now, can yer gab, or I'll run you in, too," warned Johnson hoarsely.
At that dread warning opposition died out in the weak-kneed crowd.
"Now, come along, ye young loafers in brass buttons," commanded the
policeman. "Bill, you and your friend be in court in the morning."
"Sure we will," chuckled Bill.
"Officer, will you let me explain?" insisted Hal, as the two young
corporals started down the street on either side of the policeman, who
kept a rough grip on the arm of either.
"Pickle it, and tell it all to the judge in the morning," retorted the
policeman gruffly.
Some of the crowd--Bill's friends, evidently--followed, hooting and
abusing all soldiers in general.
Four blocks away Hal and Noll were lined up before the officer in
charge at a station house.
"Assaulting Bill Dabner and his friend and insulting Bill's girl,"
announced Policeman Johnson gruffly.
"I hope now, sir, we can have a chance to explain," protested Hal,
looking squarely at the officer behind the desk.
"Did you see all this business, Johnson?" asked the officer at the desk.
"Yes," lied the policeman glibly. "I caught 'em at it."
"You men can save your explanations for the judge in the morning,"
wound up the officer at the desk. "Cell number twelve, Johnson."
Down below the cell door clanged on two white-faced, angry young
soldier boys. It was a serious thing, they knew, for ambitious soldiers
to have a clash with the civil authorities.
"We'll lose our corporal's chevrons through this," Noll predicted.
"Yes," assented Corporal Hal Overton, his eyes flashing. "But I can't
help it if we do. It's worth that price to be a man!"