Say, I couldn't tell exactly what happened next, for I was hustled into a corner and those noble young heroes of the Marne and elsewhere, full of lofty aims and high ambitions and--and other things--Well, they certainly didn't need any promptin' to carry out the order of ceremonies. Without a word or a whisper they proceeds to grab Hartley wherever the grabbin' was good and then pass him along. By climbin' on a chair I could get a glimpse of him now and then as he is sent whirlin' and bumpin' about, like a bottle bobbin' around in rough water. Back and forth he goes, sometimes touchin' the floor and then again being tossed toward the ceilin'. Two or three of 'em would get him and start rushin' him across the room when another bunch would tear him loose and begin some maneuvers of their own. Anyway, runnin' the guard seems to be about as strenuous an act as anybody could go through and come out whole. It lasts until all hands seem to be pretty well out of breath and someone blows a whistle. Then a couple of 'em drags Hartley up in front of Brother Beans and salutes. "Well, right worthy Buddies," says he, "what have you to report concerning the candidate?" "Sorry, sir," says one, "but we caught him tryin' to run the guard." "Ah!" says Beans. "Did he get away with it?" "He did not," says the Buddie. "We suspect he's a dud, too." "Very serious," says Beans, shakin' his head. "Candidate, what have you to say for yourself?" To judge by the hectic tint on Hartley's neck and ears he had a whole heap he wanted to say, but for a minute or so all he can do is breathe hard and glare. He's a good deal of a sight, too. The cutaway coat has lost one of its tails; his hair is rumpled up like feathers, and his collar has parted its front moorin's. As soon as he gets his wind though, he tries to state what's on his mind. "You--you young rough-necks!" says he. "I--I'll make you sweat for this. You'll see!" "Harken, fellow Gogs!" says Beans. "The candidate presumes to address your Grand Worthy in terms unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. I would suggest that we suspend the ritual until by some means he can be brought to his better senses. Can anyone think of a way?" "Sure!" someone sings out. "Let's give him Days Gone By." The vote seems to be unanimous and the proceedin's open with Brother Beans waggin' his finger under Hartley's nose. "Kindly recall November 22, 1917," says he. "It was Saturday, and my leave ticket read from 11 a. m. of that date until 11 p. m. of the 23rd. You knew who was waiting for me at the Matron's House, too. And just because I'd changed to leather leggins inside the gate you called me back and put me to scrubbing the barracks floor, making me miss my last chance at a matinee and otherwise queering a perfectly good day. Next!"