stunk that 'igh th' Colonel 'e sez--"

The storm doors banged below. "Redmond!--oh, Redmond!" The great,
booming, bass voice rang echoing up the stairway. Involuntarily they all
sprang to an attitude of alert attention. Rarely did Tom Belcher have to
speak twice around Barracks.

"There's the S.M.!" muttered George. Aloud he responded "Coming,
Sergeant-Major!" And he swung downstairs where a powerfully-built man in
a snow and ice-incrusted fur coat awaited him.

"The O.C.'s orders, Redmond!--get your kit packed and hold yourself in
readiness to pull out on the eleven o'clock West-bound to-morrow. You're
transferred to the Davidsburg detachment. I'll give you your
transport-requisition later."

The storm doors banged behind him, and then, Redmond, not without design,
forced himself to saunter slowly--very slowly--upstairs again, whistling
nonchalantly the while.

Expectant faces greeted him. "What's up?" they chorused. With a fine
assumption of indifference he briefly informed them. McSporran received
the news with his customary stolidity, only his gray eyes twinkled and he
chuntered something that was totally unintelligible to anyone save
himself. But its effect upon McCullough and Hardy was peculiar, not to
say, startling in the extreme. With brush and burnisher clutched in
their respective hands they both turned and gaped upon him fish-eyed for
the moment. Then, as their eyes met, those two worthies seemed to
experience a difficulty of articulation.