examination he acknowledged a
little anxiety as to whether he could stand the work; has coddled
himself, he acknowledges, for years; worries about the effect of woollen
stockings: I imagine that most men of his age here have some such
anxiety.

When enough of us had dribbled back to camp we were again assembled, and
were taken down to the drill-field by the sergeant. And there for the
first time in my life I saw a West Pointer at his work. He appeared from
somewhere, and the sergeant handed us over to him. A tall and lithe
fellow he is, so graceful that not even his military carriage can
disguise it. He has an olive-dark skin, hair that curls at the temples,
black eyes, nose straight and thin, and lips curving like a woman's. Give
him the drooping mustache of older days, and what a romantic figure he
would make! I knew him at once for a Southerner, from his coloring, his
physical beauty, and a slight trace of languor, real or affected.

But he knew his business. There is an uncertainty about the sergeants, as
thinking "Am I doing this right?" But though he looked at us out of eyes
that were a little sleepy his tenor was clear as a silver bugle, and (if
you can excuse the mixture of similes) it snapped like a whip. No
hesitation, nor even any thought as to what he should do next. We
straightened at the first command he flung at us, and in three minutes we
were working to please him. The position of a soldier! Was there the
slightest spark of amusement in his eyes as he described it to us, as if
to say "You mob of clerks and manufacturers and professional men can't
really take this position"? I never "lifted and arched" my chest so
thoroughly. Did he intimate as he gave his other commands, "You men may
play at doing this, but really it takes a soldier to succeed"? If this
was his meaning, certainly it put us on our mettle. What he gave us were
the facings and the steps and marchings, the simple movements by fours,
guiding and dressing. When we blundered, there was his little concealed
smile to make us swear to do the thing right next time. As we marched he
kept pace with us, and then all his languor was gone. His step was
springy, his arms swung, his eye roved up and down the line, and he
snapped out his "One, two, three, four!" each like a little pistol shot.
Remarked Corder, beside me, "His time is absolutely perfect--do you
notice?" I had noticed. The sergeants tried to imitate his counting, but
compared to him they