There were rows of the
officers' houses, all alike, drawn up in lines like an assembly of
the staff; there were huge barracks, most like college
dormitories; and on their porches enlisted men in shirt sleeves
and overalls were cleaning saddles, and polishing the brass of
head-stalls and bridles, whistling the while or smoking corn-cob
pipes. Here on the parade-ground a soldier, his coat and vest
removed, was batting grounders and flies to a half-dozen of his
fellows. Over by the stables, strings of horses, all of the same
color, were being curried and cleaned. A young lieutenant upon a
bicycle spun silently past. An officer came from his front gate,
his coat unbuttoned and a briar in his teeth. The walks and roads
were flanked with lines of black-painted cannon-balls; inverted
pieces of abandoned ordnance stood at corners. From a distance
came the mellow snarling of a bugle.
Blix and Condy had planned a long walk for that day. They were to
go out through the Presidio Reservation, past the barracks and
officers' quarters, and on to the old fort at the Golden Gate.
Here they would turn and follow the shore-line for a way, then
strike inland across the hills for a short half-mile, and regain
the city and the street-car lines by way of the golf-links. Condy
had insisted upon wearing his bicycle outfit for the occasion,
and, moreover, carried a little satchel, which, he said, contained
a pair of shoes.
But Blix was as sweet as a rose that morning, all in tailor-made
black but for the inevitable bands of white satin wrapped high and
tight about her neck.
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