were killed," he informed me. "He said that you were going along, and so
I thought I'd hunt you up and tell you that we'll start about seven in
the morning."

"I'll be ready," I assured him.

"Come on over to the bull-pen," he invited cordially. "Sorry we haven't
a canteen in connection, but it's more comfortable over there. Good
place to lop about, y' know; a decent place to sit, and a few books and
cards and that sort of thing. Come along."

I rather liked the man's style, and as he seemed to be really anxious to
make things pleasant for me, I shuffled off the pessimistic mood I was
drifting into, and fell in with his proposal. The "bull-pen" proved to
be a combination reading and lounging-room for the troopers not on duty.
My self-appointed host, whose name was Goodell, waved me to a chair, and
took one opposite. With his feet cocked up on a window-sill, and a
cigarette going, he leaned back in his chair, and our conversation
slackened so that I had a chance to observe my surroundings. It was a
big place, probably fifty feet by a hundred, and quite a number of
redcoats were sprinkled about, some reading, some writing letters, and
two or three groups playing cards. None of them paid any attention to
me, beyond an occasional disinterested glance, until my roving eyes
reached a point directly behind me. Then I became aware that one of a
bunch of four poker-players a few feet distant was regarding me with an
expression that puzzled me. I had turned my head rather quickly and
caught him staring straight at me. It was an odd look, sort of amused,
and speculative; at least, that was the way I read it. Twice in the next
ten minutes I glanced around quickly and caught him sizing me up, as it
were; and then I hitched my chair sidewise, and deliberately began