They stopped a few paces from where the Captain and the doctor were standing, and waited. Tom hazarded a glance down the street of Company B to see if he could catch a glimpse of his cousin, but Herbert Brewster was not in sight. Presently the Captain turned toward them. He was a short man, heavily built, and his manner was that of a man who had spent a lifetime commanding soldiers. "Well, what is it?" he asked. The messenger snapped to attention: he saluted. "This man wants to see Herbert Brewster of your company, sir." "I'm his cousin, sir," added Tom. The Captain dismissed the messenger with a nod. "You're Corporal Brewster's cousin, eh?" "Corporal?" asked Tom. The Captain laughed. "I thought that would surprise you. Yes, he was made Corporal last week. You'll find him in the third tent on your left. I don't suppose you know that he's on the sick list with a bad ankle?" "No!" "Yep." "I hope it isn't serious." "Hm-m-m"--the Captain stroked his chin--"no, the ankle isn't serious, but being on the sick list is. Run along and cheer him up. Tell him that I'll be down to see him in a few minutes." "Yes, sir." The Captain turned back to the doctor, and Tom threaded his way down the street. At the third tent he stopped, pulled open the flap and peered in. There was Bert, stretched out on his bedding, writing a letter. His right ankle was a mass of bandages from which his toes peered out. He did not look up from his writing. "Does Corporal Herbert Brewster of Cleveland, Ohio, live here?" asked Tom. "You, Tom! you!" "Don't try to get up on that bad ankle." He rushed over and grabbed Bert's hand. "How are you?" "What in the world are you doing at Murphytown?--or whatever they call this end of the mud-puddle. And how are all the people? When did you see mother and father last?" Tom held up his hands in surrender; then, as he sat down on the edge of the bedding, Bert took him by the shoulders and shook him. "They're all fine. I'm here to enlist, Corporal. Will you have me in your squad?" "You bet! Tell me about home." Bert had been among the first to enlist, and, except for one furlough of two weeks, he had not been able to return home. Many minutes passed before Tom reached the point of his own departure from Cleveland; how he had gained the consent of his father and mother to his enlistment; his trip to Murfreesboro and all his adventures and misadventures en route. "And, by the way," he ended, "the Captain said that I was to tell you that he'd be here to see you soon. And what did you do to your ankle?" "The Captain's coming to see me, eh? Humph! A lot of good that'll do me. Was he talking with the doctor?" "Yes." "Humph!" Bert plunged into thought. "How about the ankle?" Tom reminded him. "What did you do to it?"