At last the bugle sounded across the silent camp. “Parade rest!” shouted the lieutenant. Fuselli's mind was full of the army regulations which he had been studying assiduously for the last week. He was thinking of an imaginary examination for the corporalship, which he would pass, of course. When the company was dismissed, he went up familiarly to the top sergeant: “Say, Sarge, doin' anything this evenin'?” “What the hell can a man do when he's broke?” said the top sergeant. “Well, you come down town with me. I want to introjuce you to somebody.” “Great!” “Say, Sarge, have they sent that appointment in yet?” “No, they haven't, Fuselli,” said the top sergeant. “It's all made out,” he added encouragingly. They walked towards the town silently. The evening was silvery-violet. The few windows in the old grey-green houses that were lighted shone orange. “Well, I'm goin' to get it, ain't I?” A staff car shot by, splashing them with mud, leaving them a glimpse of officers leaning back in the deep cushions. “You sure are,” said the top sergeant in his good-natured voice. They had reached the square. They saluted stiffly as two officers brushed past them. “What's the regulations about a feller marryin' a French girl?” broke out Fuselli suddenly. “Thinking of getting hitched up, are you?” “Hell, no.” Fuselli was crimson. “I just sort o' wanted to know.” “Permission of C. O., that's all I know of.” They had stopped in front of the grocery shop. Fuselli peered in through the window. The shop was full of soldiers lounging against the counter and the walls. In the midst of them, demurely knitting, sat Yvonne. “Let's go and have a drink an' then come back,” said Fuselli. They went to the cafe where Marie of the white arms presided. Fuselli paid for two hot rum punches. “You see it's this way, Sarge,” he said confidentially, “I wrote all my folks at home I'd been made corporal, an' it'ld be a hell of a note to be let down now.” The top sergeant was drinking his hot drink in little sips. He smiled broadly and put his hand paternal-fashion on Fuselli's knee. “Sure; you needn't worry, kid. I've got you fixed up all right,” he said; then he added jovially, “Well, let's go see that girl of yours.” They went out into the dark streets, where the wind, despite the smell of burnt gasolene and army camps, had a faint suavity, something like the smell of mushrooms; the smell of spring.