the half-dozen yellow
ambulances, and the scraggy lot of mules in the pasture-lot across the
dusty highway. The stream is close at hand, only a stone's-throw from
the picturesque old farmhouse, and the animated talk among the groups of
bathers has that peculiarly blasphemous flavor which seems inseparable
from the average teamster. That the camp is under military tutelage is
apparent from the fact that a tall young man in the loose, ill-fitting
blue fatigue-dress of our volunteers, with war-worn belts and a
business-like look to the long "Springfield" over his shoulder, comes
striding down to the bank and shouts forthwith,

"You fellows are making too much noise there, and the doctor wants you
to dry up."

"Tell him to send us some towels, then," growls one of the number, a
black-browed, surly-looking fellow with ponderous, bent shoulders and a
slouching mien. Some of his companions titter encouragingly, others are
silent. The sergeant of the guard flushes angrily and turns on the
speaker.

"You know very well what I mean, Rix. I'm using your own slang in
speaking to you because you wouldn't comprehend decent language. It
isn't the first time you've been warned not to make such a row here
close to a lot of wounded and dying men. Now I mean business. Quit it or
you'll get into trouble."

"What authority have _you_ got, I'd like to know," is the sneering
rejoinder. "You're nothing but a hospital guard, and have no business
interfering with us. I ain't under no doctor's orders. You go back to
your stiffs and leave live men alone."

The sergeant is about to speak, when the bathers, glancing up at the
bank, see him suddenly face to his left and raise his hand to his
shouldered rifle in salute. The next instant a tall young officer,
leaning heavily on a cane and with his sword-arm in a sling, appears at
the sergeant's side.

"Who is the man who questions your authority?" he asks, in a voice
singularly calm and deliberate.

There is a moment's awkward silence. The sergeant has the reluctance of
his class to getting a fellow-soldier into a scrape. The half-dressed
bathers stand uncomfortably about the shore and look blankly from one to
another. The man addressed as Rix is busily occupied in pulling on a
pair of soldier brogans, and tying, with great deliberation, the leather
strings.

Casting his clear eyes over the group, as he steps forward to the edge,
the young officer speaks again:

"You're here, are you, Rix.