"Guard-house," said the Sergeant, shaking his head.

Not a scrap of waste matter was to be seen anywhere--not a piece of
paper--not the faintest odour was perceptible; the camp was as clean as
a Dutch kitchen.

"And this is a camp of cavalry, mind you," said Grafton. "Ten minutes
after they have broken camp, you won't be able to tell that there has
been a man or horse on the ground, except for the fact that it will be
packed down hard in places. And I bet you that in a month they won't
have three men in the hospital." The old Sergeant nearly blushed with
pleasure.

"An' I've got the best captain, too, sir," he said, as they turned away,
and Grafton laughed.

"That's the way you'll find it all through the army. Each colonel and
each captain is always the best to the soldier, and, by the way," he
went on, "do you happen to know about this little United States regular
army?"

"Not much."

"I thought so. Germany knows a good deal--England, France, Prussia,
Russia--everybody knows but the American and the Spaniard. Just look at
these men. They're young, strong, intelligent--bully, good Americans.
It's an army of picked men--picked for heart, body, and brain. Almost
each man is an athlete. It is the finest body of men on God Almighty's
earth to-day, and everybody on earth but the American and the Spaniard