hese things were what he had expected. He did not
whine. He was toughened for such experiences, so were the men about him.
The hardness merely brought out their courage. They were getting their
spirits back now as they neared the real scene of action. The old
excitement and call to action were creeping back into their blood. Now
and then a song would pipe out, or a much abused banjo or mandolin would
twang and bring forth their voices. It was only when an officer walked by
or mention would be made of the captain or lieutenant that their looks
grew black again and they fell silent. Injustice and tyranny, the things
they had come out to fight, that they would not forgive nor forget. Their
spirits were reviving but their hate was there.

At last they detrained and marched into a little town.

This was France!

Cameron looked about him in dismay. A scramble of houses and barns, sort
of two-in-one affairs. Where was the beauty of France about which he had
read so often? Mud was everywhere. The streets were deep with it, the
ground was sodden, rain-soaked. It was raining even then. Sunny France!

It was in a barnyard deep in manure where Cameron's tent was set up.
Little brown tents set close together, their flies dovetailing so that
more could be put in a given space.

Dog weary he strode over the stakes that held them, and looked upon the
place where he was to sleep. Its floor was almost a foot deep in water!
Rank, ill smelling water! Pah! Was this intention that he should have
been billeted here? Some of the men had dry places. Of course, it might
have just happened, but--well, what was the use. Here he must sleep for
he could not stand up any longer or he would fall over. So he heaped up a
pillow of the muck, spread his blanket out and lay down. At least his
head would be high enough out of the water so that he would not drown in
his sleep, and with his feet in water, and the cold ooze creeping slowly
through his heavy garments, he dropped immediately into oblivion. There
were no prayers that night. His heart was full of hate. The barnyard was
in front of an old stone farm house, and in that farm house were billeted
the captain and his favorite first lieutenant. Cameron could hear his
raucous laugh and the clinking of the wine glasses, almost the gurgle of
the wine. The thought of Wainwright was his last conscious one before he
slept. Was it of intention that he should have been put here close by,
where Wainwright cou