I part friends with everybody. Call rolls!"
The section-chiefs called the rolls of their sections and reported them
present. Farrel stepped to the door of the orderly-room.
"The men are waiting for the captain," he reported.
"Sergeant Farrel," that bedeviled individual replied frantically, "I
can't do it. You'll have to do it for me."
"Yes, sir; I understand."
Farrel returned to the battery, brought them to attention, and said:
"The skipper wants to say good-by, men, but he isn't up to the job. He's
afraid to tackle it; so he has asked me to wish you light duty, heavy
pay, and double rations in civil life. He has asked me to say to you
that he loves you all and will not soon forget such soldiers as you have
proved yourselves to be."
"Three for the Skipper! Give him three and a tiger!" somebody pleaded,
and the cheers were given with a hearty generosity which even the most
disgruntled organization can develop on the day of demobilization.
The skipper came to the door of the orderly-room.
"Good-by, good luck, and God bless you, lads!" he shouted, and nod with
the discharges under his arm, while the battery "counted off," and, in
command of Farrel (the lieutenants had already been demobilized), marched
to the pay-tables. As they emerged from the paymaster's shack, they
scattered singly, in little groups, back to the demobilization-shacks.
Presently, bearing straw suitcases, "tin" helmets, and gas-masks (these
latter articles presented to them by a paternal government as souvenirs
of their service), they drifted out through the Presidio gate, where the
world swallowed them.
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