CHAPTER XXI CROOKED NOSE AGAIN

“Forward—march!”

Snappily the command rolled out and it set in motion hundreds of khaki-clad figures, each one with a rifle and a pack on his back.

The hike, or practice march, from Camp Dixton had started. After days of preparation, the laying out of a route, and the sending forward of supplies to meet the small army of men at different places along the way, the start had been made.

Ned, Bob and Jerry recalled the rather direful prediction of the soldier who had told them a marcher was only as good as his feet, but they were not worried.

“I guess we can keep up as long as the next one,” Jerry had said.

“We’ve just got to!” declared Ned. “We can’t be shirkers.”

“I only hope I don’t get hungry,” said Bob, with rather a woebegone face. “I’m going to put some cakes of chocolate in my pocket, so I can have something to nibble on.”

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“Don’t,” advised the same soldier who had spoken about their feet. “Don’t eat sweet stuff until just before you can stop to take a drink. Candy will make you thirsty, and the worst thing you can do is to take a drink on the march. Wait until you stop. I’ve tried it, and I know.”

And so the march had started. The route was in a big circle about the camp as a center, and would take about five days. The men were to sleep in dog tents, camping at certain designated points, and eating the rations they carried with them and the food that would be brought to them by supply trains that accompanied the army. It was to be as much like a hike through a hostile land as it was possible to make it.

In order to make the illusion complete—that of having the young soldiers imagine they were at actual warfare—the same sort of marching was to prevail as would have prevailed had the men from Camp Dixton been on their way to take their place in the front line trenches, bordering on No Man’s Land, or as if they were hastening to the relief of a sorely-tried division.

To that end it was ordered that the day’s march should be broken up into periods. That is, the soldiers would march at the regulation speed for a certain number of miles, a distance depending, to a certain degree, on the nature of the land and whether or not it was uphill or downhill. At the[168] end of the distance a halt would be called, and the men would be allowed ten minutes’, or perhaps a half hour’s, rest. They were told not to take off their packs during this period, as it would be hard to get them adjusted to their backs again, but they were instructed to ease themselves as much as possible, by resting the weight of their packs on some convenient rock, log or hummock.

And so down the road went Ned, Bob and Jerry, in the midst of their chums of the army—boys and men with whom they had formed, for the most part, desirable acquaintances.

“This is one fine day,” remarked Jerry, as he and his friends trudged along together.

“Couldn’t be better,” agreed Ned. “How about it, Chunky?”

“Oh, it’s all right, I guess,” was the answer.

“Chunky is worrying so much about whether or not he will have enough to eat that he doesn’t know whether the sun is shining or whether it’s a rainy day,” laughed a friend on the other side of the stout lad.

“Well, I like my meals,” said the stout one, and there was more laughter.

On and on marched the young soldiers. Their officers watched them closely, not only to gain a knowledge of the characteristics of the men, but to note any who might be in distress, and also for signs of stragglers who might purposely delay the[169] march from a spirit of sheer laziness. The younger officers were given points on the method of marching and the care of their men by those who had been through the ordeal before. It was a sort of school for all concerned.

The day was hot, and the roads were dusty, and to trudge along under those circumstances with seventy pounds, more or less, strapped to one’s back was difficult and trying work. But there was very little grumbling. Each man knew he had to do his bit, and, after all, there was a reason for everything, and a deep spirit of patriotism had possession of all.

Now and then some one started a song, and the chorus was taken up by all who could hear the air. This singing was encouraged by the officers, for there is nothing that makes for better spirit than a strain of music or a song on the march.

They passed through a farming country, and on all sides were evidences of the work of the farmers. The injunction from Washington to raise all possible seemed to have been taken to heart by the agriculturists.

Among the volunteers were many boys from cities, who had never seen much of country life, and some of their remarks were amusing, as they noted what was being done on the farms.

During one of the halts, when Ned, Bob and Jerry, with some of their chums, were resting beside[170] the road near a farmhouse, Jerry saw a somewhat lively scene being enacted near the red barn which was part of the farm outfit. Pug Kennedy and one or two of his cronies were chasing some chickens.

As Jerry watched, he saw Pug knock a chicken down with the butt of his rifle, and then seize the stunned fowl, and slip it inside his shirt, which was big and baggy. Just as the scrapper did this a man came out of the barn and began to remonstrate with the soldiers, of whom Pug was one. But the Cresville friends noted that Pug walked away and came toward them. The bulge in his shirt, made where he had hidden the chicken, was plain to be seen.

The man who had come out of the barn was evidently accusing the soldiers to whom he was talking of having taken his chicken. They denied it, and offered to be searched. They could easily afford to do this.

The farmer, getting little satisfaction, came back to appeal to the company commander, who heard his story—one to the effect that a chicken had been stolen.

As looting was strictly forbidden, and as orders had been given to make good any loss met by civilians on account of the soldiers, it was necessary to conduct an inquiry.

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The captain started to question his men, but he had not proceeded far when he came to Pug.

“Did you take his chicken?” the scrapper was asked.

“Naw! What would I want of a raw chicken?” was the answer.

Just then Jerry gave a loud sneeze, ending with an exclamation of “Ker-choo!” which sounded a bit like a rooster’s crow.

There was a laugh at this, but Jerry had not done it intentionally, and the officer seemed to know that. But Jerry had been standing near Pug Kennedy when this happened, and the sneeze must have brought the hidden chicken to its senses. It suddenly began to struggle inside Pug’s shirt, and cackled. Perhaps it thought it heard the call of a comrade fowl in Jerry’s sneeze.

“Ah, I think we have what we want,” said the officer. “Kennedy, bring the chicken here!”

“I haven’t any——”

Again the hen cackled and stirred within the bully’s shirt. The evidence was conclusive. There was a laugh, and with an air of having been caught in a petty trick Pug took out the fowl, not much the worse for its experience, and handed it to the farmer.

“If we weren’t on a hike, I’d send you to the guardhouse for that,” said the officer sternly. “You know what the orders are against this sort[172] of business. I’ll take up your case when we get back to camp. Fall in!”

Kennedy muttered something, and shot a look of anger at Jerry.

“That was your fault,” he said.

“My fault?”

“Yes, you sneezed on purpose like a rooster, and you woke up the hen!”

“Oh, come off! I sneezed by accident.”

“I don’t believe you!” said Pug. “I’ll get square all right!”

This seemed his favorite threat.

Jerry laughed. It seemed too far-fetched to be worth noticing, but he was later to remember the promise of the bully.

The farmer, his chicken restored to him, was satisfied, and the march was taken up again. Nothing of moment occurred the rest of that day, and at night a halt was made, and the dog tents put up in the fields and woods near the road. Each man carried half a tent, and by combining the two halves shelter for the largest part of a man’s body was secured. It was not as comfortable sleeping as in the barracks, but the night was warm and the boys were full of enthusiasm, which made up for a lot.

They were gaining valuable experience, and, aside from minor troubles, every one was satisfied.

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It was late the next afternoon, and considerable ground had been covered, when something happened that had to do with Jerry, Ned and Bob. They, as well as every one else, were thinking of the coming night’s rest and a meal, when the order was given to rest, it being the last of those occasions for the day, preparatory to going into camp for the night.

As Ned, Bob and Jerry were taking what comfort they could beside the road, the stout youth looked up as a wagon passed. In it was a man, seemingly a farmer, and though he drove by quickly Bob exclaimed:

“There he is!”

“Who?” asked Jerry lazily.

“Crooked Nose!” answered Bob, greatly excited. “He’s the man we saw in Cresville the night of the fire when the Frenchman was robbed! Look, there he is!” and he pointed to the retreating wagon, which turned off down a side road.