At drill that afternoon, Ignace did even better than in the morning. True, he had not yet absorbed much of Bob's rhymed information. Still, it had given him a working basis on which to proceed. It needed only time and the dogged persistence which so characterized him to give him a lasting grip on the first principles of military tactics. Released from drill, half-past three that afternoon saw him back in barracks, and engrossed in the "stoody" of his precious jingles. Now, however, he was minus the company of his Brothers, who returned to the squad-room after drill only to go directly out again for a walk about the camp. With no friendly eye to keep ward over him, Ignace forgot Roger's caution of the morning and was soon droning away like a huge bumble-bee. Nor did he evince the slightest sign of having heard, when from across the room floated the surly command, "Aw, cut it out, you big boob!" "'All officer you mus' saloot,'" placidly intoned Iggy, his gaze glued to his copy. "'You right han' to you head now----'" "What's the matter with you, you fathead? You heard me tell you 'cut it out' once. Isn't that enough?" This second boorish hail as well as the first came from the man, Bixton, who was lounging on his cot. His longed-for opportunity had come. This time Ignace had heard and dimly realized that he was being most ungently addressed. His voice breaking off on "now" his head came up with a jerk. His round blue eyes registered a blank amazement that quickly changed to active resentment as he fixed them upon the rookie who had so roughly called out to him. Half rising from his cot, his strong hands instinctively clenched themselves. Then he slowly sank back to his former position, determined to follow Bob's advice, "just act as though that smarty wasn't alive." Out of pure defiance he again resumed his reciting of the Salute rule, raising his tones a trifle by way of showing his utter disregard for the other's uncalled-for attack. With a sudden spring Bixton left his cot. A hasty glance about him revealed the fact that the room was clear of officers. Nor were there more than half a dozen privates present, including himself and Ignace. Striding across to where the latter sat he halted directly in front of the Pole. "I'm goin' to put the sergeant onto you, you poor fish," he blustered. "How'd you s'pose a fellow can rest with you keeping up that racket? Now chop it off, or you'll get yours." For answer, Ignace calmly laid down one of the typewritten sheets he was holding and centered his gaze on another. "At 'Forwar' Mar----" he began unconcernedly. With a sudden lunge of his right arm, Bixton snatched at the little sheaf of papers. Unexpected as was the movement, the Pole's grip on them tightened. One of them came away in the aggressor's clutch, however, with an ominous tearing sound.