Torchy and Vee
mine, but pretty soon I decides that it's Hartley they're lookin' at. I
saw 'em nudgin' each other and stretchin' their necks, and they seems to
indulge in a lively debate, which ends in a general haw-haw. I calls
Hartley's attention to the bunch.
"There's a squad of buddies that I'll bet ain't yearnin' to hear someone
yell 'Shun!' at 'em again," I suggests. "Know any of 'em?"
"It is quite possible," says Hartley, glancin' at 'em casual. "They all
look so much alike, you know."
With that he gets back to his Reserve Army scheme and he sure does give
me an earful. We'd got as far as the cheese and demi tasse when I
noticed one of the soldiers--a big, two-fisted husk--wander past us slow
and then drift out. A minute or two later Hartley is being paged and
the boy says there's a 'phone call for him.
"For me?" says Hartley, lookin' puzzled. "Oh, very well."
He hadn't more'n left when the other four strolls over, and one of the
lot remarks: "I beg your pardon, but does your friend happen to be
Second Lieutenant Grue?"
"That's his name," says I, "only it was no accident he got to be second
lieutenant. That just had to be."
They grins friendly at that. "You've described it," says one.
"He was some swell officer, too, I understand," says I.
"Oh, all of that," says another. "He--he's out of the service now, is
he?"
"Accordin' to the War Department he is," says I, "but if a little plan
of his goes through he'll be back in the game soon." And I sketches out
hasty Hartley's idea of keepin' the returned vets on tap.
"Wouldn't that be perfectly lovely now!" says the buddy with the medal,
diggin' his elbow enthusiastic into the ribs of the one nearest him.
"Wonder if we couldn't persuade him to make it two drill nights a week
instead of one. Eh, old Cootie Tamer?"
Course, it develops that these noble young gents, before being sent over
to buck the Hindenburg line, had all been in one of the companies
Hartley had trained so successful. I wouldn't care to state that they
was hep to the fact that if it hadn't been for him they wouldn't have
turned out to be such fine soldiers. But they sure did take a lot of
interest in discoverin' one of their old officers. That was natural and
did them credit.
Yes, they wanted to know all about Hartley; where he worked; what he
did, and what were his off hours. It was almost touchin' to see how
eager they was for all the details. Havin' been abroad so long, and
among foreigners, and in strange places, I expect Hartley looked like
home to 'em.
And then again, you know how they say all them boys who went over have
come back men, serious and full of solemn, lofty thoughts. You could see
it shinin' in their eyes, even if they did let on to be chucklin' at
times. So I gives 'em all the dope I could about their dear old second
lieutenant and asks 'em to stick around a few minutes so they could meet
him.
"We'd love to," says the one the others calls Beans. "Yes, indeed, it
would be a great pleasure, but I think we should defer it until the
lieutenant can be induced to leave off his uniform. You understand, I'm
sure. We--we should feel more at ease."
"Maybe that could be fixed up, too," says I.
"If it only could!" says Beans, rollin' his eyes at the bunch. "But
perhaps it would be better as sort of a surprise. Eh? So you needn't
mention us. We--we'll let him know in a day or so."
Well, they kept their word. Couldn't have been more 'n a couple of days
later when Hartley calls me one side confidential and shows me this note
askin' him if he wouldn't be kind enough to meet with a few of his old
comrades in arms and help form a permanent organization that would
perpetuate the fond ties formed at Camp Mills.
Hartley is beamin' all over his face. "There!" says he. "That's what I
call the true American spirit. And, speaking as a military man, I've
seen no better example of a morale that lasts through. It's the
discipline that does it, too. I suppose they want me to continue as
their commanding officer; to carry on, as it were."
"Listens that way, doesn't it?" says I. "But what do the initials at the
end stand for--the G. O. G.'s.?"
"Can't you guess?" says Hartley, almost blushin'. "Grue's Overseas
Graduates."
"Well, well!" says I. "Say, that's handin' you something, eh? Looked
like a fine bunch of young chaps. Some of 'em college hicks, I expect?"
"Oh, yes," says Hartley. "All kinds from plumbers to multi-millionaires.
Fact! I had young Ogden Twombley as company secretary at one time. Yes,
and I remember docking his leave twelve hours once for being late at
assembly. But see what it's done for those boys."
"And think what they did to the Huns," says I. "But where's this joint
they want to meet you at? What's the number again? Why, that's the
Plutoria."
"Is it?" says Hartley. "Oh, well, there were a lot of young swells among
'em. I must get them interested in my Veteran Reserve plan. I'll have to
make a little speech, I suppose, welcoming them back and all that sort
of thing. Perhaps you'd like to come along, Torchy?"
"Sure!" says I. "That is, so long as they don't call on me for any
remarks. How about this at the bottom, though? 'Civilian dress,
please'?"
"Oh, they'd feel a little easier, I suppose," says Hartley, "if I wasn't
in uniform. Maybe it would be best, the first time."
So that's how it happened that promptly at 4 p.m. next day we was shown
up to this private suite in the Plutoria. Must have been kind of hard
for Hartley to give up his nifty O. D.'s, for he ain't such an
impressive young gent in a sack coat. And the braid bound cutaway and
striped pants he's dug out for the occasion makes him look more like a
floor walker from the white goods department than ever. But he tries to
look the second lieutenant in spite of it, bracin' his shoulders well
back and swellin' his chest out important.
It seems the G. O. G.'s has been doin' some recruitin' meantime, for
there's a dozen or more grouped about the room, some in citizens'
clothes but more still in the soldier togs they wore when they came off
the transport. And to judge by the looks of a table I got a squint at
behind a screen, they'd been doin' a little preliminary celebratin'.
However, they all salutes respectful and Hartley had just started to
shoot off his speech, which begins, of course: "Speaking as a military
man----" when this Beans gent interrupts.
"Pardon me, lieutenant," says he, "but the members of our organization
are quite anxious to know, first of all, if you will accept the high
command of the Gogs, so called."
"With pleasure," says Hartley. "And as I was about to say----"
"Just a moment," breaks in Beans again. "Fellow Gogs, we have before us
a willing candidate for the High Command. What is your pleasure?"
"Initiation!" they whoops in chorus.
"Carried!" says Beans. "Let the right worthy Buddies proceed to
administer the Camp Mills degree."
"Signal!" calls out another cheerful. "Four--seven--eleven! Run the
guard!"
Say, I couldn't tell exactly what happened next, for I was hustled into
a corner and those noble young heroes of the Marne and elsewhere, full
of lofty aims and high ambitions and--and other things--Well, they
certainly didn't need any promptin' to carry out the order of
ceremonies. Without a word or a whisper they proceeds to grab Hartley
wherever the grabbin' was good and then pass him along. By climbin' on a
chair I could get a glimpse of him now and then as he is sent whirlin'
and bumpin' about, like a bottle bobbin' around in rough water. Back and
forth he goes, sometimes touchin' the floor and then again being tossed
toward the ceilin'. Two or three of 'em would get him and start rushin'
him across the room when another bunch would tear him loose and begin
some maneuvers of their own.
Anyway, runnin' the guard seems to be about as strenuous an act as
anybody could go through and come out whole. It lasts until all hands
seem to be pretty well out of breath and someone blows a whistle. Then a
couple of 'em drags Hartley up in front of Brother Beans and salutes.
"Well, right worthy Buddies," says he, "what have you to report
concerning the candidate?"
"Sorry, sir," says one, "but we caught him tryin' to run the guard."
"Ah!" says Beans. "Did he get away with it?"
"He did not," says the Buddie. "We suspect he's a dud, too."
"Very serious," says Beans, shakin' his head. "Candidate, what have you
to say for yourself?"
To judge by the hectic tint on Hartley's neck and ears he had a whole
heap he wanted to say, but for a minute or so all he can do is breathe
hard and glare. He's a good deal of a sight, too. The cutaway coat has
lost one of its tails; his hair is rumpled up like feathers, and his
collar has parted its front moorin's. As soon as he gets his wind
though, he tries to state what's on his mind.
"You--you young rough-necks!" says he. "I--I'll make you sweat for this.
You'll see!"
"Harken, fellow Gogs!" says Beans. "The candidate presumes to address
your Grand Worthy in terms unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. I
would suggest that we suspend the ritual until by some means he can be
brought to his better senses. Can anyone think of a way?"
"Sure!" someone sings out. "Let's give him Days Gone By."
The vote seems to be unanimous and the proceedin's open with Brother
Beans waggin' his finger under Hartley's nose. "Kindly recall November
22, 1917," says he. "It was Saturday, and my leave ticket read from 11
a. m. of that date until 11 p. m. of the 23rd. You knew who was waiting
for me at the Matron's House, too. And just because I'd changed to
leather leggins inside the gate you called me back and put me to
scrubbing the barracks floor, making me miss my last chance at a matinee
and otherwise queering a perfectly good day. Next!"
"My turn!" sings out half a dozen others, but out of the push that
surges toward Hartley steps a light-haired, neat dressed young gent, who
walks with a slight limp. "I trust you'll remember me, lieutenant," says
he. "I was Private Nelson, guilty of the awful crime of appearing at
inspection with two grease spots on my tunic because you'd kept me on
mess sergeant detail for two weeks and the issues of extra uniforms
hadn't been made. So you gave me double guard duty the day my folks came
all the way down from Buffalo to see me. Real clever of you, wasn't it?"
One by one they reminded Hartley of little things like that, without
givin' him a chance to peep, until each one had had his say. But finally
Hartley gets an openin'.
"You got just what you needed--discipline," says he. "That's what made
soldiers out of you."
"Oh, did it!" says Brother Beans. "Then perhaps a little of it would
qualify you for the High Command. Shall we try it, Most Worthy
Buddies?"
"Soak it on him, Beans!" is the verdict, shouted enthusiastic from all
sides.
"So let it be," says Beans solemn. "And now, candidate, you are about to
be escorted forth where the elusive cigar-butt lurks in the gutter and
scraps of paper litter the pavement. As an exponent of this particular
brand of discipline you will see that no small item escapes you. Should
you be so remiss, or should you falter in doing your full duty, you will
be returned at once to this room, where retribution waits with heavy
hands. Ho, Worthy Buddies! Invest the candidate with the sacred insignia
of the empty gunny sack."
And say, when them Gogs started out to put a thing through they did it
systematic and thorough. Inside of a minute Hartley is armed with an old
bag and is being hustled out to the elevator. As they didn't seem to be
taking much notice of me, I tags along, too. They leads Hartley right
out in front of the Plutoria and sets him to cleanin' up the block.