Eyes looked curiously at Fuselli as he lined up with the rest. He had been transferred into the company the night before.     

       “Attenshun,” shouted the sergeant. Then he wrinkled up his eyes and grinned hard at the slip of paper he had in his hand, while the men of his company watched him affectionately.     

       “Answer 'Here' when your name is called. Allan, B.C.”      

       “Yo!” came a shrill voice from the end of the line.     

       “Anspach.”      

       “Here.”      

       Meanwhile outside the other barracks other companies could be heard calling the roll. Somewhere from the end of the street came a cheer.     

       “Well, I guess I can tell you now, fellers,” said the sergeant with his air of quiet omniscience, when he had called the last name. “We're going overseas.”      

       Everybody cheered.     

       “Shut up, you don't want the Huns to hear us, do you?”      

       The company laughed, and there was a broad grin on the sergeant's round face.     

       “Seem to have a pretty decent top-kicker,” whispered Fuselli to the man next to him.     

       “You bet yer, kid, he's a peach,” said the other man in a voice full of devotion. “This is some company, I can tell you that.”      

       “You bet it is,” said the next man along. “The corporal's in the Red Sox outfield.”      

       The lieutenant appeared suddenly in the area of light in front of the barracks. He was a pink-faced boy. His trench coat, a little too large, was very new and stuck out stiffly from his legs.     

       “Everything all right, sergeant? Everything all right?” he asked several times, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.     

       “All ready for entrainment, sir,” said the sergeant heartily.     

       “Very good, I'll let you know the order of march in a minute.”      

       Fuselli's ears pounded with strange excitement. 

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