Sergeant Harriman hurried forward and stood before the guide. “What the devil is the matter? You ought to know that command by this time.” The right guide spoke: “There is no such command any more.” “What do you mean? How dare you!” Sergeant Harriman was exasperated. The guide was calm. “We’re under army regulations and you can’t give more than one command at a time.” “When I get you up before the company commander for insubordination you’ll think otherwise. Wipe that smile off your face, you men back there.” He manœuvred them about until he had exhausted all of the commands that he could think of. Then he ordered double-time, and they ran around the field, in the burning hot sun, for fifteen minutes. It would have been longer, but the company commander, passing by, ordered the platoon to be halted, and, calling the sergeant aside, told him to stop. Such occurrences served the platoon well, for the men were angered and taken away from their more intimate troubles. In the evening the rifts of the day would be forgotten as they would sit around the bunk house and listen to old King Cole strum the guitar that the platoon had bought for him. It was late in May, and the rains that had marked the springtime had almost stopped. It was evening, and a dull yellow moon soared gracefully above shoals of white, vaguely formed clouds. In the heavens the disk seemed like a ship, rocking a trifle as it rose over a sea of fluffy cotton. Outside the bunk house members of the platoon stretched full length on the thick, soft grass, and listened to old King Cole pick tentatively at the strings of his guitar. “Play us somep’n’ sad an’ boozy, Humpy.” “Naw, play ‘The Little Marine Went Sailing Away.’” “Give us ‘If I Had the Wings of an Angel.’” “Can’t play nothin’ without a drink,” King Cole informed the group. “Now, if I was back in Muskogee to-night I’d go in M’Gittis’s saloon and say ‘Fill ’em up agin, M’Gittis,’ all night.... Ain’t nobody got a drink?” he broke off plaintively. “Well, I got a little wine you can have, Humpy. It’s in my canteen.” “Wine? You call that red hog-wash wine? I like hooch, anyway.” There was a pause. “Go and git your damned old wine.” In the evenings when there was no occupation for the platoon, King Cole rated equally with President Wilson. The wine was brought and King Cole drank well. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, emitted a satisfied “Ah,” and began: “‘Oh, meet me, oh, meet me, to-night, love, Oh, meet me in the garden alone. For I’ve a sad story to tell you, A story that’s never been told.’” King Cole solemnly chanted the last lines and stopped. “I can’t play no more. That damned wine makes me dry.” The conversation turned upon decent prostitutes and honest gamblers, a discussion over which Paul Kruger alone had taken the affirmative every time. “You betcha there can be decent gold-diggers. And honest gamblers, too,” he was saying.