The sergeant-major's office was full of a clicking of typewriters, and was overheated by a black stove that stood in the middle of the floor, letting out occasional little puffs of smoke from a crack in the stove pipe. The sergeant-major was a small man with a fresh boyish face and a drawling voice who lolled behind a large typewriter reading a magazine that lay on his lap. Fuselli slipped in behind the typewriter and stood with his cap in his hand beside the sergeant-major's chair. “Well what do you want?” asked the sergeant-major gruffly. “A feller told me, Sergeant-Major, that you was look-in' for a man with optical experience;” Fuselli's voice was velvety. “Well?” “I worked three years in an optical-goods store at home in Frisco.” “What's your name, rank, company?” “Daniel Fuselli, Private 1st-class, Company C, medical supply warehouse.” “All right, I'll attend to it.” “But, sergeant.” “All right; out with what you've got to say, quick.” The sergeant-major fingered the leaves of his magazine impatiently. “My company's all packed up to go. The transfer'll have to be today, sergeant.” “Why the hell didn't you come in earlier?... Stevens, make out a transfer to headquarters company and get the major to sign it when he goes through.... That's the way it always is,” he cried, leaning back tragically in his swivel chair. “Everybody always puts everything off on me at the last minute.” “Thank you, sir,” said Fuselli, smiling. The sergeant-major ran his hand through his hair and took up his magazine again peevishly. Fuselli hurried back to barracks where he found the company still waiting. Several men were crouched in a circle playing craps. The rest lounged in their bare bunks or fiddled with their packs. Outside it had begun to rain softly, and a smell of wet sprouting earth came in through the open door. Fuselli sat on the floor beside his bunk throwing his knife down so that it stuck in the boards between his knees. He was whistling softly to himself. The day dragged on. Several times he heard the town clock strike in the distance. At last the top sergeant came in, shaking the water off his slicker, a serious, important expression on his face. “Inspection of medical belts,” he shouted. “Everybody open up their belt and lay it on the foot of their bunk and stand at attention on the left side.” The lieutenant and a major appeared suddenly at one end of the barracks and came through slowly, pulling the little packets out of the belts. The men looked at them out of the corners of their eyes. As they examined the belts, they chatted easily, as if they had been alone. “Yes,” said the major. “We're in for it this time.... That damned offensive.” “Well, we'll be able to show 'em what we're good for,” said the lieutenant, laughing. “We haven't had a chance yet.” “Hum! Better mark that belt, lieutenant, and have it changed. Been to the front yet?” “No, sir.”