The spring had given place to summer, and the camp was not any too cool. But there were shower baths, and the officers were not over severe in drills when the weather was too hot. There was plenty of chance to cool off between drills. Occasionally the boys would have short leaves of absence, on which they made trips to town and took in a show or two, getting in on “smileage” books, or reduced rate tickets. It was after a hard day in the trenches, practice at bayonet drill, and hand grenade throwing that Bob came into the Y. M. C. A. canteen where Jerry and Ned had preceded him and asked: “Did you see the notice?” “What notice?” inquired Jerry. “Is Pug Kennedy going to be transferred?” Ned demanded. “Nothing doing,” announced Bob, as he slumped into a chair. He had lost considerable flesh and looked the better for it. “Well, what is it?” some one asked. “Has Germany given up the war?” “I hope not until we get a chance to have a whack at her!” exclaimed Jerry. “But shoot, Bob! What is it?” “We’re going to have a practice march,” was the answer. “There’s just been a notice posted about it. We’re to go in heavy marching order, across country, and live just as we would if we were in an enemy’s land.” “That’s the cheese!” cried Ned. “We can live a sort of free and easy life.” “Don’t you fool yourself, son,” said an older man. “I’ve been on these practice marches before. How are your feet?” “Oh, pretty good.” “Well, they’ll need to be,” was the answer. “Toting seventy pounds on your back, through mud puddles, over rough country, uphill, downhill, isn’t any picnic. Just wait!” CHAPTER XXI CROOKED NOSE AGAIN “Forward--march!” Snappily the command rolled out and it set in motion hundreds of khaki-clad figures, each one with a rifle and a pack on his back. The hike, or practice march, from Camp Dixton had started. After days of preparation, the laying out of a route, and the sending forward of supplies to meet the small army of men at different places along the way, the start had been made. Ned, Bob and Jerry recalled the rather direful prediction of the soldier who had told them a marcher was only as good as his feet, but they were not worried. “I guess we can keep up as long as the next one,” Jerry had said. “We’ve just got to!” declared Ned. “We can’t be shirkers.” “I only hope I don’t get hungry,” said Bob, with rather a woebegone face. “I’m going to put some cakes of chocolate in my pocket, so I can have something to nibble on.” “Don’t,” advised the same soldier who had spoken about their feet. “Don’t eat sweet stuff until just before you can stop to take a drink. Candy will make you thirsty, and the worst thing you can do is to take a drink on the march. Wait until you stop. I’ve tried it, and I know.”