"Out late, sergeant."
"Yes, sir. Got delayed."
"Too bad. Have to take your name."
As the officer waited, note-book and pencil in hand, something not fully intended crowded to Anthony's lips, something born of panic, of muddle, of despair.
"Sergeant R.A. Foley," he answered breathlessly.
"And the outfit?"
"Company Q, Eighty-third Infantry."
"All right. You'll have to walk from here, sergeant."
Anthony saluted, quickly paid his taxi-driver, and set off for a run toward the regiment he had named. When he was out of sight he changed his course, and with his heart beating wildly, hurried to his company, feeling that he had made a fatal error of judgment.
Two days later the officer who had been in command of the guard recognized him in a barber shop down-town. In charge of a military po
