Hung at the rear end of the bunk, with his slicker, haversack and embroidered ditty bag, I found his ukulele and, since I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I flopped on the bed and began strumming the uke as accompaniment to my idle dreams about the oddity of the situation. It occurred to me that if anything should happen to cause my discovery, the newspapers would make a front-page story of it. The “yellow sheets” would pay almost any price for my story of the affair, giving all the lurid details of what I heard and did during these two days of soldiering. I could visualize the headlines, in big black letters, carrying to all parts of the country the story of the daring girl who took her brother’s place in the army so that he could attend a farewell party with his beloved. After which, wouldn’t it be nice to have golden offers from half a dozen theatrical producers; it’d be a marvelous way to break into the lime-lit ranks. What a publicity stunt! When my thoughts arrived at this point, my fingers were strumming the uke rather excitedly—sort of muscular sympathy, I guess. Anyway, my reverie was abruptly ended at this point, for I heard a voice behind me call “Canwick!” And I rolled out with a start to stare dumbly at a soldier who appeared to be no higher nor lower than myself. He didn’t wait for me to say anything, just rattled out his message and disappeared. He said—I recall it distinctly because I said it over and over about a dozen times before I could decide what to do about it—“Canwick, Colonel Davison is at Regimental Headquarters. You’re to report to him there at once.” Those words marked the end of my brief spell of dreamy pleasure. The hitherto comic lark promptly developed into a very serious series of disturbing developments. After digesting the orderly’s message, I decided that there was nothing to do but report to Colonel Davison—the which I proceeded to do, and came into his presence with my heart in my throat and my knees feeling rather unstable. It was lucky that I knew where the headquarters were and what the Colonel looked like; but I wasn’t counting any blessings or naming them one by one at that moment when I wavered into his presence, and offered a weak “Yes, sir,” after a comic opera salute. “Canwick,” the Colonel said abruptly, “I’ve praised you so much that now I have to pay for the praise by losing your services.” “Oh, no, sir!” I exclaimed, entirely at sea. “Yes,” he insisted. “General Backett has decided that he needs your services more than I do, so you and I must part. You’ve worked yourself into an enviable place, and I’m sure you will like General Backett.” He stopped, looked at me a moment then added, “Are you sorry?” Well, he didn’t sound any more like a hard-boiled regular army officer than nothing at all and when he asked me that question, I was still so dumfounded that all I could manage was, “Uh-h—yes, sir, I am, sir.”