In
fact, the gray had but faintly lightened the velvet black of the night
when the cook thrust his head inside the big sleeping tents to utter a
wild yell of reveille.
The men stirred sleepily, stretched, yawned, finally kicked aside their
blankets. Bob stumbled into the outer air. The chill of early morning
struck into his bones. Teeth chattering, he hurried to the river bank
where he stripped and splashed his body with the bracing water. Then he
rubbed down with the little towel Tommy Gould had allowed him. The
reaction in this chill air was slow in coming--Bob soon learned that the
early cold bath out of doors is a superstition--and he shivered from
time to time as he propped up his little mirror against a stump. Then he
shaved, anointing his face after the careful manner of college boys.
This satisfactorily completed, he fished in his duffle bag to find his
tooth brush and soap. His hair he arranged painstakingly with a pair of
military brushes. He further manipulated a nail-brush vigorously, and
ended with manicuring his nails. Then, clean, vigorous, fresh, but
somewhat chilly, he packed away his toilet things and started for camp.
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