“It’s mostly that big bargemaster who enlisted last week,” said the major. “You remember? The fellow you told me about--the one who smuggled a flask of whisky onto the parade-grounds and tried to drink during drill? He’s cast himself for the rôle of village cut-up. He starts the noise every time. His latest feat is to pelt one of the older men with peanut-shells. He picked out the meekest-looking, oldest man in sight, I suppose, to make the sport safer. Every shot brings a laugh and every hit a chorus of yells.” The lieutenant glanced out of the compartment and down the length of the thronged car. “It’s a dirty shame,” he reported as he drew back from investigating. “He’s chosen as his butt one of the finest old fellows in all the draft of recruits. A man I’ve had my eye on since the day he joined. A man with a mystery behind him, I should say.” “Who?” asked the major, waking to mild interest at the magic word “mystery.” “The old codger the bargee is pelting? Seems a harmless, unromantic sort of fellow.” “He joined a little over a week ago,” replied the lieutenant. “I was cranky that day, and I hated to see a gray-haired man among the rookies I was drilling, for the old ones are awkwardest and take twice as long to learn the simplest tactics as the young chaps. But he’d passed the physical exam, and had been sworn in, so I tried to make the best of it. But, as it turned out, I didn’t have to.” “Why not?” “I put him in an ‘awkward squad’ and started in to teach the squad how to stand and how to step out. Well, the instant this old man ‘fell in’ I saw he was a soldier. I yanked him out of that awkward squad in five seconds and put him in a company. I kept on watching him. He had the tactics down to his finger-ends. I’ve used him two or three times at a pinch to help me drill awkward squads.” “Nothing very mysterious about that, is there?” yawned the major. “I’ve read several more thrilling mystery stories by Poe and Gaboriau.” “The mystery is this,” said the lieutenant, ignoring the elephantine sarcasm. “I can’t get him to admit he’s ever served before. He just shut up like a clam when I asked him. His name is Dadd--James Dadd. I took the bother to look up the name on the old army rolls. There’s never been such a name in the United States army. He isn’t a foreigner, either.” “May be serving under another name,” suggested the major, whom the story did not at all interest. “Is it probable? Nowadays men are only too anxious to be known as enlisting for the flag. And there are big chances for promotion for men who have served before. He wouldn’t be likely to miss those chances by changing his name and refusing to admit he was a veteran. No, it’s a bit mysterious. And--” A redoubled chorus of yells from the car brought the several officers in the compartment instinctively to their feet. Crowding to the door, they peered out over each other’s shoulders into the traveling bedlam.