Rivers's voice at his ear:

"Report for this, Reynolds."

And the drunken soldier turned and rather sullenly saluted again.

"You'll come right out to camp with me," repeated Rivers.

And now out at the camp, next morning, a dozen trumpets were ringing
out an emphatic complaint into Crittenden's sleeping ears:

"I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up in the mornin',
I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up at all.
The corporal's worse than the sergeant,
The sergeant's worse than the lieutenant,
And the captain is worst of all."

This is as high up, apparently, as the private dares to go, unless he
considers the somnolent iniquity of the Colonel quite beyond the range
of the bugle. But the pathetic appeal was too much for Crittenden, and
he got up, stepping into a fragrant foot-bath of cold dew and out to a
dapple gray wash-basin that sat on three wooden stakes just outside.
Sousing his head, he sniffed in the chill air and, looking below him,
took in, with pure mathematical delight, the working unit of the army as
it came to life. The very camp was the symbol of order and system: a low
hill, rising from a tiny stream below him in a series of natural