And he was only our lieutenant! The first sergeant called him such, in answering a question; and then I noticed the single bar on his collar. What would the captain be like? The bugle blew Recall, and it was very welcome. We were marched back to the company street and dismissed. My rear rank man was one Pickle, a hardware clerk from a town in central Pennsylvania, who never in his life saw a big league baseball game, and yet can tell you the names and records of all the chief players, especially of the Brooklyns, for which club he is a rooter. He said of the lieutenant: "One of those wiry wonders, Tireless Thomas of the Training-field. Doesn't he never remember that we are flesh and blood? Me for my little cot!" Following his example, more than half of the squad lay down till roused by the news that our rifles were being served out. So we flocked out in haste to get what would give us lamed shoulders and tired arms. Being thus roused, I next went for a swim in the lake, which was stony and cold and altogether invigorating. The lieutenant had us out again in the afternoon, us and the guns. Consequently we were put through the manual of arms until the anticipated lameness is now a reality, not only of the arms but of the whole body. I find it is not enough to shift your rifle according to prescribed motions; it must be snappy, and in cadence. "Like a clock-work," muttered Pickle in despair. And it is a crime to drop a rifle. Its first commission roused our lieutenant from his languor. "Who dropped that piece?" he thundered. Then he outpoured contempt. "There'll be glue on little Willie's fingers next time, sure," whispered Pickle. Tired at the end of the day, I yet feel virtuous, having devoted to my country a pound of my flesh. I write by lantern light in the tent, there having been no conference tonight on account of rain. Most of the squad are away, exploring the city; but Corder is already abed and sleeping-- "as insurance," he said to me, explaining his middle-aged caution. I shall follow him soon. Good-night from DICK. Postscript, written Saturday morning at 5.30, waiting for breakfast.