lay in one of the prettiest parts of Georgia. Needless to say
the day was one of sweltering heat and the regimental officers,
as they filed out of the company barracks that had been used for
holding the conference, fanned themselves busily with their campaign
hats. Each, however, as he struck the steps leading to the ground,
placed his campaign hat squarely on his head.

"Some pace the K.O. has set for us," murmured Greg, as he and
Dick started to walk down the company street.

"And we must keep that pace if we hope to last in Colonel Cleaves's
regiment," Dick declared, with conviction. "Time was when an
officer in the Regular Army could look forward to remaining an
officer as long as he was physically fit and did not disgrace
himself. But in this war any officer, regular or otherwise, will
find himself laid on the shelf whenever he fails to produce his
full share of usefulness."

"Do you think it's really as bad as that, Prescott?" demanded
Captain Cartwright, who was walking just behind them.

"Worse!" Dick replied dryly and briefly.

Cartwright sighed, then took a tighter grip on the swagger stick
that he carried jauntily in his right hand. Cartwright was a smart,
soldierly looking chap, but was well known as an officer who was
not addicted to hard work.

Past three or four barrack buildings on the street the chums walked,
Cartwright still keeping just behind them.