by spies in Washington, but it had failed and the way was now clear.

Ample food was served somewhat late to the whole regiment, the last
wounds were bound up, and Dick, having put aside the rifle, fell asleep
at last. His head lay against the window and he slept heavily all
through the night. Warner in the next seat slept in the same way.
But the wise old sergeant just across the aisle remained awake much
longer. He was summing up and he concluded that the seven hundred lads
had done well. They were raw, but they were being whipped into shape.

He smiled a little grimly as the unspoken words, "whipped into shape,"
rose to his lips. The veteran of many an Indian battle foresaw
something vastly greater than anything that had occurred on the plains.
"Whipped into shape!" Why, in the mighty war that was gathering along a
front of two thousand miles no soldier could escape being whipped into
shape, or being whipped out of it.

But the sergeant's own eyes closed after a while, and he, too, slept the
sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion. The train rumbled on,
the faithful Canby in the first engine aware of his great responsibility
and equal to it. Not a wink of sleep for him that night. The darkness
had lightened somewhat more. The black of the skies had turned to a
dusky blue, and the bolder stars were out. He could always see the
shining rails three or four hundred yards ahead, and he sent his train
steadily forward at full speed, winding among the gorges and rattling
over the trestles. The silent mountains gave back every sound in dying
echoes, but Canby paid no heed to them. His eyes were always on the
track ahead, and he, too, was exultant. He had brought the regiment
through, and while it was on the train his responsibility was not
inferior to that of Colonel Newcomb.