"Look at the work of Sergeant Mock, will you?" demanded Greg,
halting short as they came to the edge of one of the drill grounds.

Mock belonged to Greg's own company. At this moment the sergeant
was busy, or should have been, drilling what was supposed to be
a platoon, though to-day it consisted of only two corporals' squads,
or sixteen men in all.

Greg Holmes's eyes opened wide with disgust as he watched the
drilling, unseen by the sergeant.

The platoon had just wheeled and marched off by fours. The cadence
was too slow, the men looked slouchy and showed no signs whatever
of spirit.

"Perhaps the sergeant isn't feeling well," remarked Dick, with
a smile.

"He won't be feeling well after he has talked with me," Greg uttered
between his teeth.

To the further limit of the drill ground the sergeant marched
his platoon, then wheeled them and brought them back again. As
he came about the sergeant caught sight of his company commander.
In an undertone he gave an order that brought his men along at
greater speed than they had gone.

"Halt!" ordered the sergeant, and brought up his hand in salute
to the officers.