He thought of himself and Chrisfield picking up cigarette butts and the tramp, tramp, tramp of feet on the drill field. Where was the connection? Was this all futile madness? They'd come from such various worlds, all these men sleeping about him, to be united in this. And what did they think of it, all these sleepers? Had they too not had dreams when they were boys? Or had the generations prepared them only for this? He thought of himself lying under the crepe-myrtle bush through the hot, droning afternoon, watching the pale magenta flowers flutter down into the dry grass, and felt, again, wrapped in his warm blankets among all these sleepers, the straining of limbs burning with desire to rush untrammelled through some new keen air. Suddenly darkness overspread his mind. He woke with a start. The bugle was blowing outside. “All right, look lively!” the sergeant was shouting. Another day. IV The stars were very bright when Fuselli, eyes stinging with sleep, stumbled out of the barracks. They trembled like bits of brilliant jelly in the black velvet of the sky, just as something inside him trembled with excitement. “Anybody know where the electricity turns on?” asked the sergeant in a good-humored voice. “Here it is.” The light over the door of the barracks snapped on, revealing a rotund cheerful man with a little yellow mustache and an unlit cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Grouped about him, in overcoats and caps, the men of the company rested their packs against their knees. “All right; line up, men.” Eyes looked curiously at Fuselli as he lined up with the rest. He had been transferred into the company the night before. “Attenshun,” shouted the sergeant. Then he wrinkled up his eyes and grinned hard at the slip of paper he had in his hand, while the men of his company watched him affectionately. “Answer 'Here' when your name is called. Allan, B.C.” “Yo!” came a shrill voice from the end of the line. “Anspach.” “Here.” Meanwhile outside the other barracks other companies could be heard calling the roll. Somewhere from the end of the street came a cheer. “Well, I guess I can tell you now, fellers,” said the sergeant with his air of quiet omniscience, when he had called the last name. “We're going overseas.” Everybody cheered. “Shut up, you don't want the Huns to hear us, do you?” The company laughed, and there was a broad grin on the sergeant's round face. “Seem to have a pretty decent top-kicker,” whispered Fuselli to the man next to him. “You bet yer, kid, he's a peach,” said the other man in a voice full of devotion. “This is some company, I can tell you that.” “You bet it is,” said the next man along. “The corporal's in the Red Sox outfield.” The lieutenant appeared suddenly in the area of light in front of the barracks. He was a pink-faced boy. His trench coat, a little too large, was very new and stuck out stiffly from his legs.